Georgia

A few years ago I got an invitation to help on an archaeological dig in Georgia. I wanted to go so much, but somehow or other I never went. It was in the region where Jason (or Argonauts fame) went searching for the Golden Fleece. The Caucasus is one of the regions that seems magical in my mind—especially as its transcontinental. Transitional spaces are delightfully slippery. The most beautiful account I have read of Georgia is in Kapuscinski’s Imperium—in fact, his writings on all the former SSRs are extraordinary. Particularly lovely is his account of the production of cognac in Georgia. (Yes, I know it’s not actually cognac unless it comes from the Cognac region of France.) Interestingly, Georgia was the second state to adopt Christianity as the official state religion—way back in 337 CE. (Neighbouring Armenia was the first.) There is still a dispute about where the name “Georgia” comes from—whether its linked to Greek and Latin roots, comes from Persian names for the inhabitants of the region, or comes from St George—apparently a popular figure in Georgia. (Sir John Mandeville, always a tiptop source, if not always a strictly reliable one, votes for the latter.)

26 May is Georgia’s Independence Day—it celebrated the creation of the Democratic Republic of Georgia in 1918, not its independence from the Soviet Union, which was declared on 9 April 1991, and finalised on Christmas Day.

Placed as it is between Christian and Islamic cultures, Georgia experienced an early Renaissance—around 12-13th century. This Renaissance produced great cathedrals, poetry and literature. The latter includes the epic poem “The Knight in the Panther’s Skin,” the title of which has got me entirely sold. I want to read it. Then there was a pesky invasion by the Mongols in the 13th century, which, followed by several other invasions by Persians and Turks over the next several centuries, slowed this up considerably. The country broke up into several small kingdoms, and in the 18th century the Russians annexed what was left.

Then 1918 brought the independence of Georgia—for a few years, at least. In 1921 the country was invaded by the Bolsheviks, and became part of the USSR in 1922. Following the restoration of independence in 1991, civil war arose. 2003 brought the “Rose Revolution,” in which Georgia got rid of its corrupt President, Eduard Shevardnadze—when he announced his resignation after allegations of ballot fraud, more than 100,000 gathered in the streets of Tbilisi. Fireworks ensued. And who doesn’t love a good bout of fireworks?

Georgia’s territory isn’t a settled matter—there are a few breakaway areas, including autonomous regions Abkhazia and Ajaria, which both see themselves as sovereign, as well as South Ossetia, which has in part been an de facto independence region since the 90s. In Abkhazia they speak Abkhaz and Russian, and in South Ossetian they speak the Ossetian language. Ajarians speak Georgian.

Georgia is famous for its religious iconography. I read—probably in Kapuscinski—that when Armenian’s were forced out of Armenia, they saved the books. In Georgia, they saved the art.

Today’s poem is by Galakt’ion T’abidze
. I noticed that the recent anthology of Asian poetries from Norton (Language for a New Century) includes poems from the other Caucasian nations, but not Georgia. I wondered if it would be difficult to find work in translation—but it proved not to be. I found a number of things online, and selected “Sun of haying-month.” I found the poem here.



mzeo tibatvisa (Sun of haying-month)


mzeo tibatvisa, mzeo tibatvisa

locvad muxlmoq’rili graals ševedrebi.

igi, vinc miq’varda didi siq’varulit,

prtebit daipare — amas gevedrebi.



t’anjva-gansacdelši tvalni miuriden.

suli mouvline isev šenmieri,

dila gautene isev ciuridan,

suli umank’ota miec švenieri.

xanma undobarma, gza rom šeeɣeba,

uxvad moit’ana sisxli da cxedrebi,

mdzapri kart’exili mas nu šeexeba,

mzeo tibatvisa, amas gevedrebi.



Sun of haying-month, sun of haying-month,

I kneel deep in prayer, like a grail knight here.

That one whom I loved deeply, with great love,

Shelter in your wings. This I pray of you.



Mishap, suffering comes — turn your eyes from her.

Touch her soul instead — make her strong again.

Morning bring to her light from heaven again.

Give her soul repose, blessed unspottedness.

When in troubled times she must walk a path

Red with dead men’s gore, history’s victim’s blood,

May she be untouched by the whirlwind’s force.

Sun of haying-month, this I pray of you.

—Galakt’ion T’abidze

translated from Georgian by Kevin Tuite