A new compilation of Zviad Ratiani consists of four older collections and the key poem - The Negative, which has become the concept of the whole book. Collection of poems titled The Negative, is presented in retroactive order, thus linking the title with the opposite reflection of sights. Zviad is a very brave poet in form and content, he is not afraid to experiment on the well established Georgian poetic forms and on the basis of traditional forms always to seek new, his own way of writing.  Also it should be underlined that Zviad Ratiani is deeply familiar with English poetry and often applies some poetic means that seems very interesting in fusion with Georgian language. He is a master of enjambment, he freely runs-over  of a sentence from one poetic line to the next, and thus emphasizes certain words, phrases and underlines expression of speech. Often for Ratiani the main point is the whole image, what he wants to depict with his words and not the word itself and therefore his verses always leave opportunity to be reinterpreted by the imagination of the readers.  

EXTRACT 
Translated into English by Timothy Kercher

* * *

And for me, it is time to be punished.
Even if because of you.
How I woke you.

You lived in a dream.
A nightmarish dream.
Everyone was being killed.
And you yourself were being pursued by death.

So you were running off,
making your way through the corpses.
The world was collapsing around you.
But I have woken you.

And you had fear of the unfamiliar peace,
of the morning room, white walls, my smile.
You couldn’t manage to believe in reality
nor to return to the dream

and died,

but died so quickly
it’s doubtful you had time to conceive a hatred of me;
most likely you died still in love.

There were other sins, too. Heavier ones. Easier ones.
The heavier ones I’ve already forgotten.
The easier ones I can’t confess.

And now is the time to be punished,
punished severely.

And it’s time for me to be awoken.

* * *

It was not a good idea 
to visit the graveyard in the rain.

I don’t seem to be very drunk,
and who knows how many times I’ve already been here
but I cannot find your grave.

I even remember the path between graves—
straightfrom the gate and then to the left 
but I cannot find your grave.

Nearby graves seem familiar to me,
and the cypress-stump is also here,
but I cannot find your grave.

No hope for a taxi up here. This was not a good idea,
the rain worsening. And this place is quite far from
the cheap pub by the river

where I always would catch you
whenever I could not find you at home.

TO ROME

1.
And take me now to Rome, I say to my life,
my snickering life.

I suppose, I couldn’t quite believe that the world really existed,
that those countries, cities, waterfalls, islands,
really existed,

so, when I found myself somewhere I’d never been before
for the first, second, third times,
I felt altogether embarrassed, disappointed,

disappointed with both the world and myself,
yet more with the world since I had expected more of it,
while it turned out to be what and only as
it should have been. That is,
besides being real.

2.
The more you see, the less you remember
I say to myself,
and he is smiling at

the blond, long-legged waitress,
with an ashtray in her hand swaying towards his table
and is not transparent. I sober myself up: just stop,
think for a moment,
everything around is a pure illusion. But he is laughing
and utterly enjoying the lightly foamed amber liquid
that is and exactly as

beer should be. Everything is just
as it is. Everything really exists,
even Rome. I already believe. And if so,

then take me to Rome, I say to the world,
but it doesn’t care.

3.
Others used to always leave,
but as for me, proud with myself that I had seen them off,
while riding a bus back from the airport
with my forehead pressed against the cold pane,
stunned by the city ushering in the rising sun,
I used to play a game named “return”:

as though lost for many years,
having wandered about all the world’s many somewheres, I returned home at last,
and now I look at all the houses, each tree, every window
and every passer-by with love. This was not a bad game.

4.
Others always used to return. I used to meet them at the airport
listening to their odd stories about
unknown countries, cities, waterfalls, islands,
in a word—stories about women,

and I believed that I could not believe
even while believing.

I believed,
thus, could not believe
that the world really existed.

So, when I found myself somewhere I’d never been before
for the first, second, third times,
I felt altogether embarrassed, disappointed, feeling everything together
while getting angry with myself,
who fit into that space so naturally and quickly,
who was so amused and felt so at home

as though he had never doubted
that this world itself really existed.

5.
It really exists, I thought in Istanbul.

It really exists, I thought in Vienna.

It really exists, I think in an open café in Goteborg now,

excitedly sipping the lightly foamed amber liquid
that is really marvelous. And the Swiss really love
to drink so much! And Swiss girls are really
beautiful! And really there are so many forthright “really’s” accumulated
in my mind. And if all the really’s are real,

do not all the roads lead to Rome?—

Then take me to Rome too,

even if the new one.


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