Diana Anphimiadi interviews, reviews & poem features
Georgian poet Diana Anphimiadi reviewed in The Guardian; US poem features at On the Sea Wall & Poetry Daily plus Trafika Europe interview. Poems on the Underground...
When I said nothing happened
I lied to you.
It happens, it happens every day,
on bridges, in open spaces.
Because I yielded to love
I walk, for some an object of shame,
for others a mirror. Whoever looks at me
is turned to stone,
frozen.
When I said nothing happened
I simply forgot. Since that day
all the riders, all the pedestrians
have carried my name
(Shame) as a shield.
If a stone is thrown at me
I answer with stone...
When I said nothing happened,
I just lied.
This is what happens: I breathe, I exist.
My heart is a choking tumour, near the breast.
I cut out the tunes,
the malignant music, metastasis
which brings back the voices of lost days.
My heart is a celandine,
parched.
My love, can it be worth it? At night
my head hangs from my neck by a single hair
then morning, and the pain of the healed wound
and it starts all over again...
*
Bond
The honey heather has dried up in my voice,
the lullaby ivy in my throat.
When I leave, your words follow – you are mine!
You know I'll always come back.
I watch the migrating birds – their sign in the sky-
and think of the old proverb:
go, and your homeland goes with you;
return, and it's lost forever.
I leave, and the house is empty without you.
I switch off the golden fish as I go
though I'd rather keep them flickering -
on the ceiling, in the deep sea -
for your return.
*
Upside-Down
Walking on your hands is a bit boring.
Nothing to do but count toes, toenails, corns,
shoes and the snails squashed under them.
The soles of my feet burn so badly in the sun
I have to apply a yogurt compress at night.
Walking on your hands is a bit boring.
Have you ever tried it on public transport?
The bitter pain when a foot steps on your hands,
wearing high heels, or thick soles –
in the evenings I read their stories on my broken fingers.
And I can't use my pockets either- small change, letters,
handkerchief, everything just falls out.
Besides, no one's impressed when I walk on my hands,
it's a bit boring.
It really is time to stop doing it –
I've finally decided not to love you anymore.
*
Exchange of Prisoners
Everything I forget and remember by day
clings to me like shadows at dusk.
I'm like a child picking a scab on her knee –
it hurts, but she's enthralled, so she bears the pain.
After love or war, prisoners are exchanged.
You won or lost, they were stronger or you were.
So you return your lost and forgotten self –
in exchange you give away
the one you love the most.
*
Endangered
I'm not dead yet
but I am threatened by decay.
You know, so many like me
die every day -
some more perfect,
some more supple, or more ancient.
I still have a shred of hope,
but what about others -
those without writing?
Their graves have no inscriptions.
At least I'll have a grave -
inscription, nice picture,
flowers, stone enclosure.
As for the dictionary
and the grammar textbook,
rain will wash out their contents,
words and forms will rot.
Someone will say: The language carrier has left
through the non-existent door.
The last carriage of the mother tongue
has left the station.
Only the footprint will remain - Gilgamesh, The Aeneid, maybe.
Poetry too
is an endangered and decaying language.
Contents List
Introduction
Sleeping Beauty
Poet in the Shower
Prayer Before Bathing
Iphigenia
Helen of Troy
Eurydice
Persephone
Medusa
Cassiopeia (Three Back to Front Songs)
Dance Lessons (3/4 Time)
Studies
Lesson
Silent Writing
Pompeii
Soul
Autism: Beginning to Speak
Mute
Braille
Because
Prayer Before Taking Nourishment
Retrospective
Why I No Longer Write Poems
Winter
Loss
Dogs
Bond
Gardening for Beginners
The Snake in the Yard
Centaur
etc
Lost
Upside-Down
Immune Deficiency
The Trajectory of the Short-Sighted
Surrogate
The Choice
Tears in the Glass
Evening
Children
The Forest Near the Window
Exchange of Prisoners
Entertainment
Orchestra
Reaping Song
July
Fair Copy
Endangered
The Second Coming