We, the poetry readers

For a long time, I was not a poetry reader. I read it here and there but mostly in a detached and unconcerned manner, neither feeling nor seeking any deeper connections or spiritual insights in poems. I always read free verse, intentionally avoiding the rhymes. I despised the poetry with rhymes and had the definite knowledge of the origins of this contempt – my childhood.

In Soviet schools we were forced to learn poetry by heart. I think it did not change that much in the more than thirty years since Georgia gained independence. Kids still have to memorise poetry but maybe (and hopefully) not as intensely as we were required to. I do not remember much of the discussions about what we learnt, or if we had discussions at all, but what I do remember is that every second poem was fervidly patriotic. In the late Soviet Union nationalism was flourishing in its ugliest forms in almost every republic, and Georgia was no exception. Trying to cultivate national sentiments through textbook poetry seemed rather ineffective – we were too young to understand it but already too sensible to feel that there was something quite unsettling about the way we were being taught.

We also had something called creative reading that was even worse than learning poems by rote. Creative reading was an extracurricular activity for chosen, talented students exclusively. They were expected to recite patriotic poems passionately and expressively, accompanied by hand gestures, dramatic intonation and carefully placed pauses. Of course, a teacher directed the use of all the hammy devices. These chosen, talented kids were the stars of every celebration, from October Revolution Day to New Year’s Eve or even International Women’s Day. Luckily, I was not among the chosen ones. I was too shy to master that style of recitation and unable to memorise poems properly.

I turned forty just a few months before the first lockdown began. Shut in in my apartment, I constantly dreamt of being somewhere else, being someone else. I longed to wander, to travel, to breathe freely. I could only do this by exercising my imagination, and reading was the best way to do it. It allowed me to leave my room and embrace the world without constraints. I was not surprised when, at some point, I found myself reaching for a poetry collection. It was a fascinating discovery – reading poetry distracted me immediately, made my imagination flourish and transported me into another world in seconds. Unlike fiction, poems did not require time to immerse, they offered an immediate gateway to the depths of the word stream.

Life became so much more bearable with poems.

Since then, I have been reading poetry almost every day, savouring two or three poems, maybe even more, without any rush, with full concentration. I won’t compile a list of what I have read or what has touched me the most – sharing a list of favourites would be too personal. I even started to rediscover some of the poetry I once knew, mainly Georgian classics. Somehow, I realised that those rhymes that had felt so empty in my childhood were now acquiring meaning. Suddenly, they resonated deeply, they made sense, they were beautiful. As an adult, I could finally grasp their melancholy – the melancholy of adult poets yearning for their childhood, for its places, its smells, its people, no longer alive. As a child you enjoy all of these with a pure joy and delight and that bliss leaves no space for sadness or gloom.

I continued to read poetry when I felt most insecure, when Russia launched its full invasion of Ukraine. I continued reading when the situation grew increasingly turbulent in Georgia in March 2024, when the pro-Kremlin ruling party reintroduced the Foreign Agents Law after its failed attempt to do so a year before. The purpose of this law has been the same as in Russia – to suppress and neutralise all critical voices. At the same time, the Offshore Law was enacted to create a safe haven for shadowy Russian capital and the local oligarchs. The law banning LGBT ‘propaganda’ was a new low. It was a legislative package adopted in its third reading, also borrowed from Russia, giving green light to censorship, limitations of self-expression, discrimination and violence against queer people.

When the Offshore Law was being discussed, I remember googling offshore countries and then searching for their celebrated poets and writers. I wondered if they had any. Somehow, I couldn’t picture a thriving literary scene alongside oligarchs and money laundering. It turns out I was right, to some degree. I remember picking up a Georgian queer anthology that had been published just a few months before the adoption of the law, reading it with a lump in my throat, completely immersed in its raw, timeless beauty. I also remember myself crying while listening to the interview with the brilliant Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish who said that ‘people with no poetry are defeated people’.

These moments pushed me to confront my deepest and most intimate fears, but again, poetry made it much easier to negotiate with them. I also understood that in this world of insecurities, disparities and uncertainty, reading poetry is both a privilege and a shelter. This is something precious given to us, but not to the poetry lovers around the world who are now experiencing war, terror, imprisonment or expulsion. Therefore, poems, poets and poetry festivals have become more important than ever, like fireflies to light the darkness, to bring hope.

The lighthouse of hope for me is the Tbilisi International Festival of Literature. Despite all the unrest and the obstacles put up by the wanna-be-the-the-big-censor government, it is still going to be held this year. Like in every other festival, poetry always lights the bigger fire. And this I say as a fiction writer who has participated in a number of different festivals.

I also understand that the future in almost every part of the world is very unclear, leaving us almost completely unaware what the days ahead might bring, but for me, as a poetry reader, poems keep giving me determination and strength. And I believe that even in this uncertain future if just one poet and one poetry reader remains, we will survive. Otherwise, we will become a defeated civilisation.