Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Maya Sarishvili

Tell my husband

Tell my husband
That this, my veil, grew from the skull,
Like fatty milk leaving crispy clefts.
The veil is chimney smoke.
And I am a dark chimney,
Or a hot veranda, onto which I raise up
These globules of milk fat – wasps –
In places from which there is no return, very high up . . .
Tell my husband, my mother’s soul is a veil
That has flown off anxiously into my hair and sways me –
But this pain
Still lingers in my flesh, like a diamond bullet.
Tell my husband
That I shall set sugar pigeon squabs as a veil on the back of my head,
Or I shall use his letters as a covering instead of a veil,
When I grow so old and changed,
Like a flower unfurling in boiling water.

Zeg aan mijn man

Zeg aan mijn man
dat deze sluier uit mijn hoofd is gegroeid,
als vette melk zet hij knisperende room aan zijn oppervlak af.
Als rook is de sluier.
En ik ben de donkere schoorsteen,
de hete gang waardoor de vetbellen opstijgen
naar een plek zo hoog dat er geen weg terug is.
Zeg aan mijn man dat de sluier de ziel van mijn moeder is,
onrustig als ze is, heeft ze zich in mijn haren vastgevlogen en ze laat niet meer los.
De pijn steekt als een scherpe kogel in mijn vlees.
Zeg aan mijn man
dat ik jonge suikerduifjes als een sluier op mijn hoofd zal schikken
of mijn hoofd met zijn brieven zal tooien,
als ik zo oud en slap word
als een bloem die in een kop heet water drijft.

უთხარით ჩემს ქმარს,
რომ ეს ფატა თავის ქალიდან ამომეზარდა,
როგორც მსუყე რძე მოიდებს ხოლმე ტკიცინა ნაღებს.
კვამლია ფატა.
მე კი ბნელი საკვამური ვარ,
ანუ ცხელი დერეფანი, რომელსაც ამყავს
ამ რძის ცხიმის ბურთულები - კრაზანები -
მოუსვლელში, ძალიან ზემოთ...
უთხარით ჩემს ქმარს, დედაჩემის სულია ფატა -
წამფრენია ნერვიულად თმებში და მქაჩავს -
ეს ტკივილი კი
ჩარჩენილი მაქვს ხორცში, როგორც ალმასის ტყვია.
უთხარით ჩემს ქმარს,
რომ შაქრის ხუნდებს შემოვისევ კეფაზე ფატად,
ან მის წერილებს ავიფარებ ფატის მაგიერ,
როცა ისე დავბერდები და შევიცვლები,
როგორც ყვავილი - მდუღარეში ამოვლებული...
Close

Tell my husband

Tell my husband
That this, my veil, grew from the skull,
Like fatty milk leaving crispy clefts.
The veil is chimney smoke.
And I am a dark chimney,
Or a hot veranda, onto which I raise up
These globules of milk fat – wasps –
In places from which there is no return, very high up . . .
Tell my husband, my mother’s soul is a veil
That has flown off anxiously into my hair and sways me –
But this pain
Still lingers in my flesh, like a diamond bullet.
Tell my husband
That I shall set sugar pigeon squabs as a veil on the back of my head,
Or I shall use his letters as a covering instead of a veil,
When I grow so old and changed,
Like a flower unfurling in boiling water.

Tell my husband

Tell my husband
That this, my veil, grew from the skull,
Like fatty milk leaving crispy clefts.
The veil is chimney smoke.
And I am a dark chimney,
Or a hot veranda, onto which I raise up
These globules of milk fat – wasps –
In places from which there is no return, very high up . . .
Tell my husband, my mother’s soul is a veil
That has flown off anxiously into my hair and sways me –
But this pain
Still lingers in my flesh, like a diamond bullet.
Tell my husband
That I shall set sugar pigeon squabs as a veil on the back of my head,
Or I shall use his letters as a covering instead of a veil,
When I grow so old and changed,
Like a flower unfurling in boiling water.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère