Poems by Joseph Dzhugashvili (1895-1896)

To The Moon (1)

Swim untiring, as before
Over storm hidden earth

Blow away the thick storm of gloom

With your silver radiance.

To the earth unfolded sleepily

You bend with a tender smile

Sing to Kazbek

*
a lullaby

Whose blanket of ice rises to embrace you.

But know it well, one who was once

Banished and plunged to ashes,

Will rise to the height of Mtatsminda

With his inspiration having taken wings.

Sitting in the dark heart of the sky

Playing with its pale rays

Illuminated my land to the brim for me

With your even light.

I will open my heart to you

Stretch my hand in meeting

Once again, with a thumping heart

I look at the bright moon.

*

A reference to the Caucasian mountain
known in Georgian as Mkinvari. According to tradition this was the mountain to which Prometheus was bound.

Oh Bard! Since you were moved to tears

By the peasants’ bitter fate

From then on, it has been your fate

To feel the intense burning pain.

When you triumphed, deeply moved

By the grandeur of your homeland

Songs called out to you, as if
Flowing from the divine heights.

When, inspired by the fatherland

You touched your most intimate strings

It was as if a young man in love,

Was dedicating to it his dreams.

From that moment onwards,

You are bound to the people with ties of love

And you built a monument for yourself

In the heart of every Georgian.

To the immortal song of my land’s singer

An award must be conferred,

Already the seed has taken root

Reap the harvest now!

Not for nothing people glorify you

You shall live unto eternity

And many like Eristavi

*

Let my country raise her sons.

*

Eristavi, Rafael Davidovich (1824-1901). Georgian poet, ethnographer and folklorist. The most prominent theme of his work was the hard life of the peasantry.

Morning

A rose bud opened

Clinging to the blue violet

Awakened by a light breeze

Bends the lily upon the grass.

The lark sang in the blue sky

Flying higher than the clouds

And the sweet sounding nightingale

For children sang her song from the bush.

Blossom my Georgia!

Let peace reign all over my homeland!

And you my friends through knowledge

Bring glory to your homeland.

Our friend Nininka is getting older

Weighed down under his grey hair

His strong shoulders have drooped

Our hero is becoming feeble.

What a stroke of bad luck

He once with his furious sickle

Crossed the squalling field

One step falling heavily after another.

He walked straight on the stubble field

Wiping the sweat from his face

And then the flames of merriment

Illuminated the young man.

But now his legs do not move

Evil old age does not spare anyone

And the old man lay crippled

Telling stories to his children.

When the songs of free labour

Are heard from the corn fields

The heart as always

Beats faster filled with wonder.

Bending over his crutches

The old man stands up

With a smile for the children

His face lights up.

As he walks from house to house

Knocking on strangers’ doors

With his oak mandolin

Playing his simple song.

And in his song, in his song

Pure as the radiance of the sun

Grand Truth can be heard

Of lofty sublime dreams.

The hearts that turned into stone

Are forced to beat once more
For many he ignited Reason

That once slumbered on in Darkness.

But instead of bestowing on him glory

The people of his land

Brought the outcast

Poison in a cup.

They told him "Damn you!

Drink! Drain it to the bottom

Your song is strange to us
Your truth we do not need."

When the moon with her radiance

Suddenly illuminates the earthly world

Her pale blue sparkle

Plays on the farthest corners.

Upon the azure grove

The nightingale sings her song

Her tender voice can be heard

Not waning but free.

Silenced for a moment

The stream shall sing again in the mountains

The dark forest in the night is
Awakened by wind’s gentle wings.

When haunted by hellish Darkness

You return to your homeland

Haunted by hellish Darkness

You fortuitously glimpse sunlight.

Then the clouds tormenting the soul

Shall clear the dark veil

And Hope awakens my heart

With its deafening sound.

The poet’s spirit rises high

And the heart beats for Reason

I know that this Hope

Is blessed and pure.

I.V. Stalin, Izbrannye sochineniya v 3-kh tomakh, Tom I, Izdatelstvo gazety ‘Patriot’, Moscow, 1999, pp. 1-4.

Translated from the Russian by Shubhra Nagalia

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