u/immortellesPoet37

“Independent of this mind is my
heart” — Hafiz

At the “Enjoy your Zen” moment on TV,
A pair capybaras soaked, their bodies
worn by the heat in the water
with the fallen fruit;
mind shut of worry, hazed and dazed,
they stood dreaming.
And I, jealous of such peace,
wished to shut the doors of thought
to prevent the hot smelt of opinion that followed.
The very next minute, “zen” was washed away
by news — soap-sudded,
discolored, a luke-warm, seething flow.
I stood up and switched off the TiVo
to light a magic lamp with a halo glowing,
the distractions shut out,
and listened to my Heart, her muscles
sing & thump, skipping a beat
over the Mind — a bit drunk, a bit high,
a bit sad, yet happy —
  one thump, then the next, another…
  No score drawn, no verdict kept.
Heart bathed in transcendent light
and swaddled in the purple lotus
of all-enduring spirit.

© 2026 Tamar Shengelia. August 19, 2026.

to read and work on in September

Marble Roses

Marble,
pink-veined yellow,
roses glazed,
placed in a shapely vase
to saturate the thirst,
slim, tall, leggy supermodels,
glowing,
smooth stems stand tall
without the prickly thorns,
yet unapproachable.

You are so prim and perfect,
alas devoid of fragrance,
hiding, wrapped
in yellow silk, pinky lace,
with the hearts shut
un-greeting the gaze.

My garden roses
under the window
bloom in yellow-orange,
tinted by warmer pink,
their fragrance inebriating.

Rain or shine,
they spread their frilly skirts,
lift their faces, au naturel,
no fuss, no make-up.
They nod and smile, jolly- golly,
scented
by the playfulness and beauty.

Joy of open arms and hearts,
greeting,
hearting others.

© 2026 Tamar Shengelia. All rights reserved. Photos mine.
August 12, 2026

Here I have basically taken Gershwin’s “Summertime” heartbeat and written a jazz in words- swing, and sultriness and wistfulness and fluidity and syncopation -🎷🎶 as a tribute to the greats!
Mama Ella, Papa Duke, Uncle Satchmo
This is for you!
To lean back, close your eyes, and let it play in your head like a slow walk through August air.

And yes… mama always knows the beat.;)))

Summertime

Summertime,
the fish are darting through the ponds;
across the meadows,
the deer are bounding.
Summertime,
the sun is sizzling,
the air is hot.

Summertime, nature of longing,
summertime, verdant grounds,
summer orchards blooming,
summertime naps outside on the cot, skin sweaty and the noon shadow from the apple trees is slow to come,
Nothing to be done,
summertime
Nothing needs to be done.

Summertime fishing, and biking,
summertime splashing in pools,
summertime out boating,
summertime berry picking, taking stroll in woods,
Summertime, tennis on lawns.

Summertime thrushes singing,
and thrashing in the thicket
of the mulberry bush.

Summertime reading curled on the deck, pages heating from the sun
prose,
Lines must be restarted where the romance began,
summertime flirts and gossip,
summertime hats, glasses,
flip-flops and shorts.

Summertime cruises, and parties,
summertime leisure, and cocktails in the hot breeze;
and laughter, relaxing,
summertime airy, frilly dresses—cotton and silk.

Summertime singing,
summertime hearty thick blues,
slow reggae, Ella, and Duke.

Summertime suntan,
and thunder,
summertime the bluest in white curly clouds.
Summertime, enjoy it—
colorful kites
braving the skies.
Summertime easy, and bright,
summertime oh so happy, so warm and so kind.

poem and photos by
Tamar Shengelia
Aug. 16, 2025

Poets don’t read poets unless dead;
seldom—contemporary.
Perhaps the reason is:
all that we pronounce with passion
and sincerity
has already been said, so aptly,
thus rendering the verses,
their trends and styles—
one beat-up, endless repetition.

One same long line,
put down by a Sumerian scribe,
or an Egyptian priest,
or voiced and sung by Homer,
or ancient Vedas
carried forward and echoed,
set down much later
by someone else’s pen—
continuously written.

With brilliance of minds,
urgent tongues, indomitable drive,
nevertheless, the endless effort lost—
all that has already been sung
of beauty, pity, longing, transience,
is left to repeat, in memoriam,
the poignancy of some enormous loss…

poem by
Tamar Shengelia
Nov. 5, 2025

#MeditationsByTamar #LyricsByTamar #ArtOfWords

Illustrations:
An ancient shumeriqn scribe statue-
Gypsum replica of Shumeriqn scribe
Dudu. The original statue was made of diorite and probably came from Tell Telloh (Girsu), Iraq, c. 2600 BCE

known as a dub-sar, was a highly trained literacy expert in Mesopotamia who used a reed stylus to press wedge-shaped cuneiform characters into wet clay. They were essential members of society who controlled administration, recorded economic trade, and created the world's first written literature. Preserved mythology, hymns, and early epics like the tales of Gilgamesh.

Bust of Homer 2nd - 1st c bce Roman copy of lost Greek original

Rustaveli's Fresco in Jerusalem 12 th cent
Shota Rustaveli known mononymously as Rustaveli, was a medieval Georgian poet. He is considered to be the pre-eminent poet of the Georgian Golden Age and ...the only surviving work “ The Knight In The Panther’s Skin”

Fall Poem: Ariadne’s Song

Oh, fall, oh fall, not quite the downfall
of my vitality and youth,
caught in the deluge of dried, expired letters
not dared to be sent,
the trees belatedly dispatching with the winds,
signed in whispers: with love, remember me, hope to…
P.S.—
ah, even they forget the lines one saves and savors for post scriptum…

This tumbling fall, where the sky is transparent,
lucid like your eyes,
as the ethers of togetherness,
so tender, the belief
caught in
forgetfulness and forgiveness…

And yet time moves on,
the time allotted by the fall,
till it fades my tresses with white-grey shades of concealing snowfalls…

Fall onto these luscious carpets
of dried foliage, prickly wool,
rains wash the memories clean of rumination:
The deadly Minotaurs waiting for their slayer,
armed with silver-glinting pen instead of dagger—their Theseus.

Be done!
Don’t make me wait too long!
Drag these monsters onto
the spreads, bleached by the sun.
Extract their purple juice and scribble
words that save the world
from madness of the fall!
Make me
write in brooding blood on stubbornness and fortitude.
To spin the scarlet thread she so lovingly rendered to the Hero
to emerge from labyrinthine past
To remember those
who keep us in their prayers,
as sun-chasing storks,
bound to return, carry
the unfaded echoes home
to the laps of Gods.

© Tamar Shengelia, 2026. All rights reserved.

Illustrations:

Ariadne abandoned by Theseus, 1778
Angelica Kauffman RA (1741 - 1807)

Ariadne in Naxos - Evelyn De Morgan (1855–1919) - The De Morgan Foundation

By Tamar Shengelia

Perfect you!

Since nothing and no one
can be coaxed into becoming better,
I, having added a couple or more decades,
ask only for rain from the skies.
It is easier this way:
When the outcome is left entirely
to clouds or heavens.
No untested recipes, untried…

And others will be happy too,
since nothing is required—
Interpret the signs as you wish,
no fault assigned, no mistakes to correct,
no effort, no work, no improvement.

Stay as you are,
just be you!
Rain or shine.
Perfect in a perfectly new, bright world.

©Tamar Shengelia. Aug.9, 2026
Munich
Photos Tamar Shengelia, Scenic route and the Kutchen at Neuschwanstein Castle

Another Sight

When my eyes grow veiled with age,
straining to gather
the world’s smallest beauties,
perhaps another sight
will quietly take their place…

Have you looked into the eyes of the old—
those who have seen the world
of good and evil,
joy and grief,
life as it is?

Their gaze lingers
on the face of universe,
stays
resting and observing
what ours rushes past—
unrushed, bespectacled,
in close, absorbing.

Within those eyes rests
patience born of years,
a hope that has survived
the storms of living,
a quiet confidence, no longer chasing
what time cannot give,
not in resignation,
but in choice.

The joy of understanding
what it means not only
to stay alive,
but to be alive.
Verily.

To remain human,
approaching that hour
when we shed the shell,
one body that carries soul within,
and let the true Self
be released.

Free from the boundaries
of form and time,
of what we call an ending,
returning to the vastness
where nothing is being lost,
but transformed…

© Tamar Shengelia Aug 3, 2026 Grunwald
Photos by Tamar Shengelia

By Tamar Shengelia

Survivor

She neuters the pain
of being disappointed
in herself.

Winces,
she pauses,
swallows hard
to fight the nausea.

Pills don’t want to
slide past her tonsils,
down the throat.
The medicine refuses,
stopping at the barrier
between
a self lost
and a calm found,
the numbing
of mind and senses.

She prefers
self-medicating.
Yet her body,
her body
denies the passage,
prohibiting the poison
from going down.

Later it pumps out
the bitter gall,
more bitter
than lemon pith and core
and vinegar combined—
memories collide,
surging
through her guts and head.

Too many pledges,
too many words—
words, more words;
expectations
of promises,
of life.
Hopes ran too low,
despair rose too high,
ache was piled
onto the round death discs,
till the throat
constricted,
growled,
“Enough of this,”
vomiting
the yellow-citrine wave,
foaming with swollen,
tiny tokens—
proof of flight,
of a body sent
to the final round
without her,
still kicking
till the final round,
against her will.

Bitterness riding
with the stomach juice,
tinted
with the rolled poison.

And a single thought—
that she can still soothe
herself with some lies;

“Hey, hope never dies!”

That, yet,
she has not lost
the spark;
that some life ahead
is livable,
worthy of sincere effort—

that yet,
life believes
and loves her
more than
she deserves…

© Tamar Shengelia, 2026. All rights reserved.
Photos mine from Munich Residentz:

It was the seat of government and residence of the Bavarian dukes, electors, and kings from 1508 to 1918. It grew from a medieval fortress into a huge palace complex with ten courtyards, incorporating Renaissance, Baroque, Rococo, and Neoclassical architecture

Poets don’t read poets unless dead;
seldom—contemporary.
Perhaps the reason is:
all that we pronounce with passion
and sincerity
has already been said, so aptly,
thus rendering the verses,
their trends and styles—
one beat-up, endless repetition.

One same long line,
put down by a Sumerian scribe,
or an Egyptian priest,
or voiced and sung by Homer,
or ancient Vedas
carried forward and echoed,
set down much later
by someone else’s pen—
continuously written.

With brilliance of minds,
urgent tongue and drive,
nevertheless, the endless effort lost—
all that has already been said
of beauty, pity, longing, transience,
is left to repeat, in memoriam,
the poignancy of some enormous loss…

poem by
Tamar Shengelia
Nov. 5, 2025
Photo by Tamar Shengelia : more than 300 year old London Plane( Platanus) with smaller elm tree growing attached to it, self- seeded sapling on the stem of host tree
#MeditationsByTamar #LyricsByTamar #ArtOfWords

I hoped I left us behind,
yet here, again, you turn up
at my memory doors, uncalled—
unbidden, you walk
hand in hand with me through the past.
I say goodbyes again,
and wish, again,
and want us part for good.

Tamar Shengelia
Aug, 2, 2026
Saltzburg

Ricchi e Poveri

She was not quite stout, rather plump. Stout suggests solidity; she was rounded instead, rolling down the street like an unhurried afternoon wave.
Hello Kitty pink pajama bottoms, a loose purplish knit top with three-quarter sleeves. A thick, colorful cloth bag in similar colors slung over one shoulder.

But what made me look was the music. A portable player from another era blasted “O come come Sara” by Ricchi e Poveri, so popular in my youth. I immediately hummed back to the tune, “Sarà perché ti amo,” as it continued floating after her through the sunlit, unhurried morning.
She strolled by, almost floating with the melody. It lightened her frame, and when our eyes met, we smiled.

She looked a little older than I, though not by much. A weathered face, indifferent to her surroundings, the street with colorful houses, a few cars, early tourists, cafés, the green and grey mountains surrounding the city from all sides, except for the music. She could have been Italian, or perhaps not.
Some might have called her untethered, a vagabond. Yet she looked clean, relaxed, happy in a way so many of us wish to be, paying no mind to the world’s attentions, cruising through this fine morning.

The only thing I know for certain, without assuming, is that she loves an early stroll and singing along with Ricchi e Poveri.

© Tamar Shengelia, All rights reserved.
Innsbruck, July 31, 2026

By Tamar Shengelia

Scrolling

Horowitz played Chopin études
to a full hall,
Carnegie, it seemed.

A vet was checking
a belligerent cat,
scratchy, biting.

A baby gurgled,
took a single step,
fell on a plump diapered bottom,
smiled, squealed.

An earthquake shook the house,
cracks appearing,
construction tilting.

Ocean waves splashed somewhere,
so peaceful and calm.
Tanks rolled through Donbas,
flattening metal-laden fields.

An orca splashed,
she and her pup
being lifted toward freedom.

A woman looked in the mirror,
talked and applied
the third layer of makeup,
hardly blinking.

A dog wagged its tail
and jumped upon the lap
of its owner,
just returned from army service.

A camper prepared soup
on top of a peak,
high in the mountains.

A toddler posed at the zoo,
two elephants strolling
to the water trough
in the background.

Blooming orchards somewhere
shed white blossoms,
swaying in the wind.

A hummingbird hovered,
glimmering,
tasting royal lilies.

A famous actor
recited a poem.

News on funds,
stocks and shares
ran across an unblinking screen.

Crowds jumped and screamed
at a soccer match,
celebrating a scoreboard gain.

Škoda factory robots
assembled cars in batches.

A belly dancer danced,
swaying her hips
and beating rhythm
on a daira.

A herd of cows mooed,
calling one another
across the pasture.

Colored paragliders
soared through the skies,
riding the currents.

A river carried logs
swiftly downstream.

Cars were stuck
on the autobahn,
honking.

Doctors examined
a patient with a wound.

And I—
I was supposed to read
one very wise work.

Instead,

I cruised
through
the unbearable abundance
of metabeing—
being alive through countless lives at once.

© 2026 Tamar Shengelia. All rights reserved.

#Poetry #ContemporaryPoetry #PhilosophicalPoetry #Scrolling #Metabeing

When Words Purr

Words like stray cats
stretch languidly,
arch their backs
on the shelves of lines.
They watch, purr at me
from the small notebook
I carry every time
I leave home.

At the bookstore
I buy some coffee,
take a stroll amid
rows of volumes,
thin or thick.

Contemporary, classic,
young adult, mystery,
romance and horror—
they crowd the shelves,
edging their way,
leading readers onward.

I choose one or two.
I study the covers,
crack them open, read ink-fresh
typographic scripts,
then sigh and wish
I would
write something
worthy…
Soon.

When the music of foreign
tongues and dialects subsides,
when one thought follows
another—original, alive—
when memories gather and drift,
ideas crack open
the empty door
and step across the threshold.

I promise, I whisper
to a few chosen volumes,
I’ll buy you later.

So long, books, so long.
I must return and work
on my waiting stanza,
my writing blog.

© Tamar Shengelia, 2026
All Rights Reserved.

By Tamar Shengelia

On Mercy

What if today would never
glance back,
recounting the lost yesterdays —
days cheating time,
or otherwise:

The times too wise for past,
edging present out…
Ineligible for recordkeeping.

What if the grace was dispensed
not a borrowed debt with interest,
just as is, at face value,
or prima facie, if you will:
no prerequisites,
a free will in kind,
kindly consideration.

What if dedication stretched its loving hands through life;
and past was left to past,
not for avenging,
but the one that compelled so utterly
to be completed.

His will done on earth,
and our sins settled and forgiven —
not up in Heaven as meant,
but here: in acceptance of the spirit.

When suspicions cast shadows in the darkened chamber of the mind,
the heart searches for a simple word, or even its echo,
that will whisper —

His mercy rules.

The rest will stay in you & me,
dust settling between us.

© Tamar Shengelia

#Mercy #Forgiveness #Grace #Humanity

The Log.

Translation of Besik Kharanauli poem.

A log lies by the hearth, the age of an elder,
Fit neither for firewood, nor to sit on as a stool,
Remembered only when stumbled over and tripped upon.

A log lies by the hearth, the age of an elder,
As if it once were an icon niche, a mountain shrine,
Dragged down by ropes, placed by the fireplace side.

A log lies by the hearth, the age of an elder,
It desires no one, by none it is desired,
Remembered only occasionally, when tripped over by the fireside.

A log lies by the hearth, the age of an elder,
None wish to see it, none to hear its voice's tide,
Nothing to recall, except the burning, the ashing—the agony inside.

The house will fill with sin without the log being burned in fire,
Do something, people, act, for it refuses to die!
A log lies by the hearth, the age of an elder.

© Tamar Shengelia, July 17, 2026

კუნძი. ბესიკ ხარანაული.

კუნძი ბუხართან აგდია, ბერიკაცის ხნისა,
არც დასაწვავად ვარგია, აღარც სკამად ისა,
ხანაც თუ მიაგინებენ ფეხის წამოკვრისას.

კუნძი ბუხართან აგდია, ბერიკაცის ხნისა,
თითქოს ხატის ნიში იყო, საწყევარა მთისა,
საბელით ჩამოათრიეს, დადეს ბუხრის პირსა.

კუნძი ბუხართან აგდია, ბერიკაცის ხნისა,
აღარც არავინ მას უნდა, არც არვის ისა,
ხანდახან გაახსენდებათ ფეხის წამოკვრისას.

კუნძი ბუხართან აგდია, ბერიკაცის ხნისა,
არც დანახვა არვის უნდა, გაგონება ხმისა,
გასახსენებელიც რაა, გარდა წვა-დაგვისა.

სახლი ცოდვით აივსება, თუ არ დაიწვისა,
აცა, ხალხო, რამე ჰქმენით, რომ აღარ კვდებისა,
კუნძი ბუხართან აგდია, ბერიკაცის ხნისა.

Reading…

Bygones are left to the past,
Lived through, left behind.
New ones borne—

Winds blow, bringing
smoke from forest fires.
Distance covered fast,
thousands of miles.

Great Lakes, deep wells,
what hides in the depths of woods
rising to the surface:
fur evaporates when it burns,
needles melt, leaves curl
as parchment of burning manuscripts.

Smoke smells of wood and resin,
noxious toxins
seep with every breath.

Stay in, stay in, and write
for remembrance of green acres lost,
if only them—
lands and kingdoms of emerald and mauve…
exhale.

Put the soot of doubt
to rest, diaphragm distends,
heart riots,
knotted muscles spasm
and gather ache for
years, wood becoming ashes.

I wait for the sky to shed
her tears to cleanse the earth,
while fires burn in red-orange flames
reaching to the sun,
the ever-present eye
that can’t be dimmed or obscured,
no matter the calamity we invent
or manufacture to confront.

Every time, dumbed and humbled
by a scale and ineptitude.

A hose coiled, useless.
Sirens screaming.
Grey, sweaty faces of the firemen.
Helicopters spraying foam.
Rattling red trucks, almost toys,
scaled down against the raging hurricane
of crimson and black
we used to play with as children—
all so familiar, becoming ordinary.

© Tamar Shengelia, 2026. All rights reserved.

#PoetryOfTheEarth
#EnvironmentalPoetry
#NaturePoetry
#EarthMemory
#Ecopoetry

Progression:

She is closing the shop —
the Saturday shift is short,
10 to 4, then a short subway ride
home, grocery, laundry at a neighborhood laundromat, going through
bills & letters, phone calls —
just a couple of a few old
friends who stayed — same school, same address, same progression- marriage, kids, work.

Her husband died almost five
years ago,”living “ her the house &
a mortgage — that’s how she tells
her friends and coworkers —
two daughters moved out,
the son is away in college, visiting on holidays.

Sunday is a church day, sermon,
Bible school for a dozen of youths,
followed by euchre with
some from congregation.

After that a day is done, to get
a couple of pastries from Italian
bakery on the way home,
TV with tea or coffee, cross-
words, a round of chess on her
lap-top, then folding a laundry
from yesterday, light clean-up
and cooking .

She is looking forward to a summer
when her three grandkids will
visit for a week or a month,
so to catch up, to go to beach,
cook, shop, gossip.
She is looking forward to that.

© 2026 Tamar Shengelia. All rights reserved.

⁠#TheMechanicsoftheSoul⁠
⁠#anatomyofwaiting⁠
⁠#ArtofWords⁠
⁠#TamarShengelia⁠