Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Rati Amaghlobeli

THE FOREST

This forest is thick, but it’s light,
Like a temple, like Athens city.
In the forest every daybreak seems
An outbreak of harmless fire.

When the sun rises, its descent is silent –
Here rarely anyone comes to visit.
It is dozing fitfully, or mist has descended.
There is no pillow

On its bed. The empty paths
Are eternally circular. Deep breathing,
Rational breathing – carefree breathing here.
I took a good look round –

The trees belong to all sorts of religions:
This tree is Lao-Tze, that one is Confucius,
Fruit has bowed the branch with ripeness,
It’s given a good harvest.

In the forest grow verbs’ infinitives,
Words’ roots, dreams’ notions,
The golden fleece, if it’s the Lord’s drink,
The voice here is forest-like.

The echo of this forest is unbroken in time,
An echo which has never cut short
Similar words, a forest, or a land of words,
That is a foreign country.

HET BOS

Dit bos is dicht, maar o zo licht,
als een kathedraal die zich naar de zon richt.
Elke dag verrast het bos met een gezicht
van vuur in het morgenlicht.

Als de zon ondergaat, loop je er in alle stilte door –
hier doet bezoek zich maar zelden voor.
Waakzaam sluimert het gehuld in een nevelspoor.
Hard en sober

is zijn rustplaats. Zijn lege wegen
wervelen eindeloos rond in een kring. Hier voel je de zegen
van voluit, bedachtzaam en licht ademen. Toegenegen
keek ik in het rond en elke lichtkegel

wees erop dat elke boom een eigen geloof verkondigde:
deze staat voor Confucius en die voor Lao Tse,
de takken buigen door onder de rijpe vruchten
die een rijke oogst beloven.

In het bos groeien aanzetten tot woorden,
werkwoorden, duidingen van dromen,
zelfs het Gulden Vlies en de Beker Gods klinken door
in de stem van het bos, en hoor,

de echo van het bos klinkt eindeloos in de tijd,
voor wie er nooit heeft vermeid
zijn woorden, bos, woordenbos voor altijd
naar een ver buitenland afgeleid.

Close

THE FOREST

This forest is thick, but it’s light,
Like a temple, like Athens city.
In the forest every daybreak seems
An outbreak of harmless fire.

When the sun rises, its descent is silent –
Here rarely anyone comes to visit.
It is dozing fitfully, or mist has descended.
There is no pillow

On its bed. The empty paths
Are eternally circular. Deep breathing,
Rational breathing – carefree breathing here.
I took a good look round –

The trees belong to all sorts of religions:
This tree is Lao-Tze, that one is Confucius,
Fruit has bowed the branch with ripeness,
It’s given a good harvest.

In the forest grow verbs’ infinitives,
Words’ roots, dreams’ notions,
The golden fleece, if it’s the Lord’s drink,
The voice here is forest-like.

The echo of this forest is unbroken in time,
An echo which has never cut short
Similar words, a forest, or a land of words,
That is a foreign country.

THE FOREST

This forest is thick, but it’s light,
Like a temple, like Athens city.
In the forest every daybreak seems
An outbreak of harmless fire.

When the sun rises, its descent is silent –
Here rarely anyone comes to visit.
It is dozing fitfully, or mist has descended.
There is no pillow

On its bed. The empty paths
Are eternally circular. Deep breathing,
Rational breathing – carefree breathing here.
I took a good look round –

The trees belong to all sorts of religions:
This tree is Lao-Tze, that one is Confucius,
Fruit has bowed the branch with ripeness,
It’s given a good harvest.

In the forest grow verbs’ infinitives,
Words’ roots, dreams’ notions,
The golden fleece, if it’s the Lord’s drink,
The voice here is forest-like.

The echo of this forest is unbroken in time,
An echo which has never cut short
Similar words, a forest, or a land of words,
That is a foreign country.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère