bombs fly & sirens sound
they think they scare us
buildings fall & fires burn
they think they’ve beaten us
propaganda, lies spread
like a game of whispers
they think they speak truth
no
their bombs are nothing
for every building they destroy
we build two more
the real truth
no matter what they try to take
we will never surrender our spirit
we will stand together
no matter what
as long as one flower remains
ukraine will live on
by CASSY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2023
When the last grain of sand finally falls,
through the cracks of the hourglass,
I hope it finds me grateful, content,
having lived a life that’s truly been mine.
With no regrets, I’ll cherish memories:
breaking rules, stealing smiles, and free.
I jumped the gun, fell deeply in love,
and watched sunrise, euphoric and above.
On rooftops, I danced with morning dew,
felt life’s pulse, and let my spirit renew.
My time’s been filled with laughter, tears,
and moments that dispel all fears.
When my hour’s up, I’ll greet death’s gentle keeper,
with cheer, and finally, eternal sleep’s whisper.
I’ll ask to haunt old libraries’ hallowed halls,
play with the clouds, and hear their gentle calls.
Till then, I live. I laugh, cry, smile,
at life’s beauty, and it’s worthwhile.
by TESSIE
© All rights reserved 2024
yeah, i really should’ve checked on the weather
because the sky goblins are just not a thing
but it’s said that to go back can be bad luck
if even to grab a forgotten umbrella
once left, one’s house should be stayed away from
so, splish of puddle, meet my blue suede shoes
today, me and my shoes have things to do
firstly, to visit that old bench in the park
it’s been looking drab and lonely recently
and the pigeons poo on it for merry sport
a stimulating rub with keen hands and suds
will bring the hardwood back to its former glory
secondly, to treat old man river to coffee
with a shot of brandy made piping hot
it’s been looking sluggish and tired recently
so, me and my shoes with a flask, bottoms up
shall give a golden shower for the ages
over the truculent swans, honking, aggrieved
and finally, to hug that weeping willow
grimly wilting in silence out there on the bank
me and my shoes with clumsy handmade scarf
with playful breath control will swaddle her nape
until the chlorophyll leaves the leaves on high
to fill the night sky with a new constellation
and postscript will find me in that same evening
placing upon porch my hopelessly damaged shoes
could they be an offering to the sky goblins
we all know they’re blue suede footwear fetishists
so, anything’s possible, is it rather not
and, hopefully, tomorrow there will be no rain
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024
so glad my world is crumbling
‘cos i really want to start again
i won’t try to hold the pieces
and rebuild the walls in vain
things can never be right again
but i can weave a flaxen path
i won’t pack my travelling bag
with either despair or wrath
i’ll thaw my hands o’er new hearth
’til i emanate a renewed hope
i won’t let them claw me into
their inhuman brutal death lope
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024
Literary classics aren’t always created by the greying elder statesmen and women of the writing world. You know the ones. They’re all wise and wrinkly and impassive, and woe betide the scholar who dares mount an honest critique of their bodies of work.
You see, literary classics are also written by upstart youngsters. These youngsters are full of vitality and creativity. They live fully awake and fully aware during these very difficult times. Nothing escapes their notice and they’re unafraid to share what they really think. They walk among us right now, breathing, smiling and crying, loving and hating, experiencing the full range of their humanity without apology.
This series presents names that you won’t find in textbooks or on Wikipedia, but these are the very youngsters who are creating modern Ukrainian literature right now. Trust us, you will want to check them out because it’s only a matter of time before they become household names. When we go back to these writers in two hundred years, we have no doubt that they’ll be mentioned in the same breath as luminaries such as Taras Shevchenko and Lesya Ukrainka.
A poem about November
Again, I’ve lived until the Fall
Though last November
the way felt insurmountable
The Father says
the Winter will be tough
so, we should do the
canning
The poems are the same
‘bout November
I start to write in July
Вірш про листопад
Знову дожив до осені
Хоча минулого листопаду
нездоланним здавався шлях
Каже батько
що зима буде важка
тож треба робити
закрутки
Так само вірші
про листопад
починаю писати з липня
Original poem by BOHDAN BRATUS
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024
unbolt me 