- Georgia -
Diana Anphimiadi (Anthimiadou) is a poet, writer, linguist and pedagogue. She was born in 1982 in Tbilisi, Georgia.Graduated from Ivane Javakhishvili State University with specialty of Georgian languages with MA in General Linguistics. She works on her PhD in the same university in comparative and corpus linguistic. Diana actively collaborates with educational and literature periodicals. She is an author of five poetry collections, two prosaic books and one children’s book. She researches Georgian gastronomy, gastro-linguistic, culinary and ethnic culture, works in the educational field, writes articles on school system, inclusive education and about Autism language.
Diana has received number of awards for her literary work, her debut poetry collection was awarded with “Saba” in 2009 among them, in 2016 she received Vakhushti Kotetishvili prize for the best poetry translation of the year. In 2018 her book TALES WRITTEN IN A DRAWING ALBUM got Iakob Gogebashvili Award for Children’s and Youth Literature.
Her poetry collections of poetry are titled: Chocolate (2008, Siesta publishing house); Resumé of Mythology (2009, Saunje); Trajectory of the Short-Sighted (2010, Saunje); Cutting the Shadow (2015, Intelekti Publishing).
Diana’s works are translated in Russian, English, German, French, Czech, Polish, Lithuanian, Ukrainian, Greek and Armenian languages and poems are included in many poetry anthologies. Her full poetry collections are published in Austria and The UK.
In 2022 The Guardian named her bilingual edition Why I No Longer Write Poems (translated by Natalia Bukia-Peters and Jean Sprackland, Bloodaxe) in their list of “the best recent poetry – review roundup”, calling it “gorgeous, fabulising verse”.
The Accused / დამნაშავე
This man’s accused of dying.
He died in a dishevelled bed,
his head lolling to one side and, oh my God,
he died with his mouth hanging open. Shame on him.
He didn’t get round to tidying his room,
and left the dishes dirty.
Imagine, even his ashtrays are overflowing with dog ends.
Oh, and those shelves are thick with dust.
He forgot to erase the photos on his phone,
and, this is awkward to mention,
some of those messages.
How could he just die like that, naked?
How utterly disrespectful.
Shame on him.
He didn’t make amends to his girlfriend,
nor pay his debts,
or sort out his credit or loans.
He still owes his neighbour for repairing the lift
and the lock on the door to the block.
He could at least have got his washing done,
and when it was dry, taken it in off the line.
He failed to climb the ladder in his profession,
he didn’t attract investment in a start-up,
never became a blogger or an influencer.
How could bring himself to die like this?
What will people think?
Why isn’t he ashamed?
He could at least have had a shave
and run a comb through his hair before he died,
beaten and in pain,
alone at night.Translated by Natalia Bukia-Peters and Victoria Field
The Conspiracy theory / შეთქმულების თეორია
No children exist,
In very deed, this is an optic illusion
-When you look through a teardrop,
All seem tiny and beautiful,
They don’t exist, it’s the biggest lie
Adults have ever made up,
In any way to justify the insidious plan-
As if there is someone starving, as if someone in fear,
As if there is someone with reddened cheeks in cold.
They do not exist- find some other excuse to justify
A real-like ice-cream,
A real-like plastic iron,
A real-like poodle elf,
Bad quality slides,
Bitten strawberries on cakes,
Sticky caramel in teeth.
No children exist.
Humans are built by builders.
In any place they can be put in today,
No permission needed,
They are building, they are building non-stop,
Millions of books with plans and drafts can be found,
Materials are also available.
They build and put, and they stand to
Repulse storms of deadlines,
Get wasted away in heat of bills,
They stand in real-like rain
In real-like snow,
They stand, they stand
They melt, diminish, fade away,
Sit in laps of their own selves
And with little, lovely, nostalgic voice
Mom, buy me a lollipop,
Mom, buy me a lollipop,
Mom, buy me, please.
No children exist, it’s a lie,
How children can really exist
In the world if it’s real.Translated by Inga Jgenti
13 / წითელი პარასკევი
A thirteen-year-old boy’s backpack,
Bits and pieces in it;
A thirteen-year-old boy’s book:
Notes, scribblings and authors with silly moustaches.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s T-shirt,
A punny slogan or a soccer player’s image on it,
A thirteen-year-old boy’s room, scattered:
Heaps of clothes, chocolate wrappers under the bad
And a table-top of crumbled chips.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s web profile:
Games and messages to a senior girl, unreplied.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s pockets
Full of unthinkable things.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s heart
Overwhelmed with fear, and love, and complexes.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s face:
His nose, suddenly bigger,
Rashes sparsely distributed on the skin.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s shoes,
Slightly uneven soles, worn out of wandering.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s hair,
Kind of longer than usual, disheveled, and
A thirteen-year-old boy’s head full of worries.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s hat.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s hat.
A thirteen-year-old boy’s hat.Translated by Ekaterine Machitidze
Mariupol / მარიუპოლი
- My primary school teacher?
- A flower seller next street?
- A cellist girl with injured shoulder?
- My first boyfriend?
- Those three kids of our neighbor?
- A baker I used to buy Vatrushki for my breakfast?
- A boy from the neighborhood always listening to loud music?
- Was mined.
- A green-eyed girl secretly writing poems?
- …Who is that… screaming under the ruins?
- My mum?
- My dad?
- The body not found yet.
- The city?
- Still standing, though in smoke.
- And your children?
- Will never be born.Translated by Manana Matiashvili