Poetry Collection
Intelekti Publishing 2014
96 pages
ISBN: 9789941458118


‘When asked why I keep writing, I fearfully stare at the hump of the bottomless abyss between the question and my body,’ says the author. Fond of experimenting with language, always seeking fresh metaphors, neat epithets, broad hyperboles and all-embracing allegories, Paata Shamugia is a master, skilfully mixing the comical with the tragic. Readers will find out more about his style and imagery when they read the present collection and become paid-up members of Schizosociety. Paata Shamugia is an intellectual poet who knows the history of philosophy particularly well. One measure of this may be a kind of specific knowledgeable, rational poetic re-evaluation which would be impossible without an extremely deep knowledge of the relevant texts. Philosophical themes come into his poems in a way that lets one understand how deeply the author has gone into them and thus manages to endow these themes with artistic life. For certain theses of historical thinking and for representation and re-actualisation in the field of contemporary artistic and linguistic concepts, the author often resorts to stylistic methods of parody and falsification. Despite the uproar which Paata Shamugia’s books periodically provoke, this book is fundamentally different from the output of other shock poets, and the difference lies in the depth of his dependence on reality, and his attitude’s fundamental divergence from the shock poets. For him, shock is an instrument for discovery, and something which may be found in the history of literature. Or Paata Shamugia considers shock front he point of view of a man standing apart, not as a shock artist himself.

One can randomly open Schizosociety  at any page and find an inspiring quotation - an influential social message, slogan, motto - as the best sample of intertextuality; as  an innovative, quite an unusual product born between poetic and mathematic logics.   

Shota Iatashvili, Poet, Literary critic

‘For me Paata is – I don’t want to use the word project – but he is a project. He continues as he began, and he is moving by a geometrical progression, upwards. For now, in his poetry I can detect no sign of calming down or allying into anything, or, let’s say, a reduction in his emphasis. It isn’t like a cardiogram which goes up and down, up and down: it increases.’    

E. Kevanishvili, poet

‘It can really be said that Paata is a reader’s poet, that his poetry is addressed to somebody: I can recognise the people for whom Paata Shamugia’s prayers, exegeses and poetic precepts are written, as well as his so-called philosophical poems so full of bitter irony.’

M. Kharbedia, literary critic

Translated into English by Nino Gogua  


I often ask this question
I never have the answer though
And always when I have no answer
I write.
Thus, I write because I have no answer:
This could be an answer on this question -
An oblique stone thrown
Into the garden of the questioner and the answerer simultaneously
I hope the next poem of mine
Will start with a description of a beautiful landscape
Infants tottering in the green mall
Totality of calmness
I will let a cute dog
Into the poem for more effectiveness
(It’s a common symbol of devotion,
And after all, influences positive emotions)
And the poem will be doomed to be an answer,
To be as trusty as an eyewitness
The evidence I shall give shall be the poetry
The whole poetry and nothing but the poetry
But when still asked:
Why do I keep writing?
I fearfully stare at the humpback abyss
Between the question mark and my body.


I’m visa-free in language,
I make business contracts with verbs and nouns,
I make intermissions with interjections,
I’m a busy poet.
I lead diplomatic negotiations with binary oppositions,
I stand after a prefix – like a gentleman,
but I turn a blind eye to past simple – simply impudent!
I check my base – I have to stand strong.
I’m a busy poet.
I practice the forms of interrelations – I’m in shape.
I build the crumbed infrastructure
Of my body – I run.
To relax, I invest hormones
In the first girl I meet – oops!
Nothing personal, just poetry,
I’m a busy poet.
I set free everyone
Who has been living in the prison of ready-made answers,
It’s time to be sentenced to peace!
It’s time to be sentenced to love!
We have it coming!
Zero tolerance to petty obsessions!
I’m a busy poet.
I try to eliminate separatism –
Separation between a language (AKA the State)
And humans (AKA humans).
The one who speaks always lies.
The one who writes is always
Exposed by the lies he writes.
My lie’s ordinary,
My poem’s extraordinary.
I’m a busy poet.


I’m a fisherman 
and as soon as the night falls 
I fix a fish pole on my emaciated back 
and go to the river bank 
(a fishing-rod must be long, 
and a string must be strong, 
in case you hook something huge). 
I straighten the fish pole 
and before the float starts floating, 
I ritually light up a cigarette. 
String is stretching, 
a single artful stroke and 
the hook brings a measured METAPHOR, 
flopping, slipping between fingers… 
It won’t get away, it’s in safe hands. 
I’ve already piled up enough of petty METAPHORS, 
in fact, I expecter a sturgeon COMPARISON, 
but well, that’s also something, 
At least it’s not a LITOTES! 
Cranes flew over with a commotion, 
they’re flying high – 
that’s a good sign 
and a good fisherman knows it. 
If cranes fly law, silent and fast 
it signifies a bad fishing day. 
I’m lucky today, 
Hello, comrade cranes! 
Many don’t pay attention to such details 
which is bad 
and a bad fisherman does not know it. 
Here, the float was shaken, 
the string is so strained, 
I think I’ve caught a hasty IRONY, 
But ironically, I’m left with an empty hook. 
Over and over I fail to seize it, 
it deserts every time. 
But, damn yeah, IRONY is hella costlly, 
it’s a better seller 
and if you ask me, that’s good. 
Yes, they are bony, 
but who needs a boneless IRONY?! 
It’s OK, SYMBOLS are also bellyful. 
If only night falls soon, 
then the real SYMBOLS will appear – meaty, bona fide… 
As soon as the light goes out, 
they leave the bottom and are easily hooked up. 
I’m not in a rush, 
I’ll keep on sitting at the damp bank 
of my conscience, 
and thinking about the full school of SYMBOLS. 
They will come, they will certainly come … 
But how can one maintain a family with SYMBOLS only? 
They are quickly wiped out, they are not abundant, 
You have to replace them constantly, 
to keep the effect. 
Kids are blubbering, 
they chewed the last METAPHOR yesterday, 
And symbolically saved a SYMBOL for the breakfast. 
My wife is also grumbling: 
Look, your colleague has caught thiiiiiiiis huge HYPERBOLE – 
marking trajectory with her hands – 
The whole press was talking about him, 
Happy wife of his, 
And what are you capable of? 
Children can’t digest ALLEGORIES any more, 
and they have very bad poops, 
the doctor prescribed metonymy. 
I’m giving clumsy excuses 
that size does not matter, 
that everything has it’s own moment of bloom, 
that if they give me a break, 
they will see, 
they will fucking see, 
I’ll too snatch blubbery HYPERBOLES, 
mighty METAPHORS, 
witty EPITHETS, 
I’ll make a killing, 
they will see… 
The river is cooing like a bird, 
That’s not a good comparison, 
That’s a river cooing like a bird. 
Where are fish, where are fish? 
I’ll have a look around… 
There are no… 
I put the fish pole aside, 
I take a nap and dream.

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