Tag Archives: Nedopysani

WORDS LIVE ON // Serhii Zubatenko

Down through the ages, Russia has tried to kill the Ukrainian identity. They have done everything to present Ukraine as the rural outskirts of the ‘great, educated and advanced’ Russian empire. But the ones who proclaimed themselves enlighteners were merely butchers, murderers. They did everything they could to erase Ukrainian culture, traditions, and even the Ukrainian language itself.

And they are still doing this, even now, literally. During the last eleven years of war, Russia has killed hundreds of people of literature. Writers, poets, translators, editors, publishers and librarians. Ukrainian men and women. As you read these words, others are left to disappear in an unread draft forever.

There is a project called ‘Nedopysani‘ (‘Unfinished‘ in English). It’s a memorial site for people of literature who will never be able to put that final dot in their notebook, who will never be able to take into their hands their first published book. And so, this is our hard and painful mission. This is what we must do for them. It is inevitable.

Today, we present the next instalment of our translation series, ‘Words Live On’. We have done our best, and we hope that it will speak to our Dear Readers in a way that cold, clinical war statistics cannot.

Glory to Ukraine! To our heroes — glory!

Let
Life go to hell
Drink hard
I’ll see how a ray ripens
Don’t keep
Spring screws off the tails
Of all tomcats, hard
to recall

Floats
So bright and dull
Lives
Before isn’t too late, from the boat
Escapes
In a trice to the bottom for pearls
What will others say? Doesn’t matter

Forget
Keep waves, don’t let ’em slip
No humans
Who keep the keys from every passway
Our path
Is tangled with lianas. The very same.
Since morn the beasts already
Roar

Нехай
Життя іде під три чорти
Бухай
Я подивлюсь як зріє промінь
Не май
Весна відкручує хвости
Усім котам, важким
на спомин

Пливе
Така яскрава і нудна
Живе
Поки не пізно із човна
Втече
Мигцем за перлами на дно
Що скажуть інші? Все одно

Забудь
Тримайся хвилі, не впусти
Не людь
Знає ключі від всіх ходів
Наш путь
Уплівсь ліаною. Той самою.
А звірі зранку вже
Ревуть

Original poem by SERHII ZUBATENKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2018

WORDS LIVE ON // Illia Chernilevskyi

Down through the ages, Russia has tried to kill the Ukrainian identity. They have done everything to present Ukraine as the rural outskirts of the ‘great, educated and advanced’ Russian empire. But the ones who proclaimed themselves enlighteners were merely butchers, murderers. They did everything they could to erase Ukrainian culture, traditions, and even the Ukrainian language itself.

And they are still doing this, even now, literally. During the last eleven years of war, Russia has killed hundreds of people of literature. Writers, poets, translators, editors, publishers and librarians. Ukrainian men and women. As you read these words, others are left to disappear in an unread draft forever.

There is a project called ‘Nedopysani‘ (‘Unfinished‘ in English). It’s a memorial site for people of literature who will never be able to put that final dot in their notebook, who will never be able to take into their hands their first published book. And so, this is our hard and painful mission. This is what we must do for them. It is inevitable.

Today, we present the next instalment of our translation series, ‘Words Live On’. We have done our best, and we hope that it will speak to our Dear Readers in a way that cold, clinical war statistics cannot.

Glory to Ukraine! To our heroes — glory!

Because someone put a leash on my tongue,
because now there is no one to say, “I’m missing,”
because truth is—in fact—not a signpost,
because there are no truths at all in the world.
That’s why your “today”
is only today
and the Sun, like a puppy, licks the earth’s feet,
because all our tears are bitter and salty
emigrated forever to the land of self‑depreciation.
Because the stars are soft, like the heels of infants,
because the whole world, ’til the last drop
explodes each day and flows back into the womb,
like the footprints left by Jesus’s sandals.
Because a word and rhyme long ago
lost their status as weapons of mass destruction,
because the wrinkles appeared
in a gaze at the window,
and you did not notice them
in your daily reflection.

Тому що хтось надів нашийник на мій язик,
тому що нікому казати тепер «I’m missing»,
тому що істина – насправді не вказівник,
тому що в світі взагалі немає ніяких істин.
Тому є твоє «сьогодні»
лише сьогодні
і сонце, що ноги землі, як цуцик, лиже,
тому що всі наші сльози гіркі й солоні
емігрували навіки в країну самопринижень.
Тому що зорі м’які, як п’яти у немовлят,
тому що весь світ до останньої краплі
вибухає щоденно і лине в утробу назад,
як сліди, що лишили Ісуса сандалі.
Тому що слово і рима уже давно
утратили статус зброї масового ураження,
тому що з’явились зморшки
у погляді на вікно,
яких ти не помітив
у щоденному відображенні.

Original poem by ILLIA CHERNILEVSKYI
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2022

WORDS LIVE ON // Mykhailo Marianych

Down through the ages, Russia has tried to kill the Ukrainian identity. They have done everything to present Ukraine as the rural outskirts of the ‘great, educated and advanced’ Russian empire. But the ones who proclaimed themselves enlighteners were merely butchers, murderers. They did everything they could to erase Ukrainian culture, traditions, and even the Ukrainian language itself.

And they are still doing this, even now, literally. During the last eleven years of war, Russia has killed hundreds of people of literature. Writers, poets, translators, editors, publishers and librarians. Ukrainian men and women. As you read these words, others are left to disappear in an unread draft forever.

There is a project called ‘Nedopysani‘ (‘Unfinished‘ in English). It’s a memorial site for people of literature who will never be able to put that final dot in their notebook, who will never be able to take into their hands their first published book. And so, this is our hard and painful mission. This is what we must do for them. It is inevitable.

Today, we present the next instalment of our translation series, ‘Words Live On’. We have done our best, and we hope that it will speak to our Dear Readers in a way that cold, clinical war statistics cannot.

Glory to Ukraine! To our heroes — glory!

I will shit under a bush in the quiet woodland
In peace, in bliss, amid the scent of grasses
That is nirvana, my dear friends
And like this, in nirvana, no one has ever shitted

Don’t yell, no need to, you’re cynical people
That my poetry’s about the act of defecation
Keep calm, everything will be all right
At the proper time empty your digestive tract

I’m for everything good, may all be well
May only goodness prosper, may evil disappear
And may all kind people live in happiness
May only the Huylo in Moscow drop dead from the shits

Під кущем насеру в тихій лісосмузі
В тиші, у блаженстві, в ароматі трав
Отака нірвана, любі мої друзі
І отак в нірвані ще ніхто не срав

Не кричіть, не треба, ви, цинічні люди
Що в моїй поезії дефекацій акт
Зберігайте спокій, все нормально буде
І звільняйте вчасно ваш кишковий тракт

Я ж за все хороше, хай всім добре буде
Хай добро лиш квітне, і хай щезне зло
Й хай живуть у щасті усі добрі люди
А від срачки здохне у Москві Хуйло

Original poem by MYKHAILO MARIANYCH
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2022

WORDS LIVE ON // Veronika Kozhushko

Down through the ages, Russia has tried to kill the Ukrainian identity. They have done everything to present Ukraine as the rural outskirts of the ‘great, educated and advanced’ Russian empire. But the ones who proclaimed themselves enlighteners were merely butchers, murderers. They did everything they could to erase Ukrainian culture, traditions, and even the Ukrainian language itself.

And they are still doing this, even now, literally. During the last eleven years of war, Russia has killed hundreds of people of literature. Writers, poets, translators, editors, publishers and librarians. Ukrainian men and women. As you read these words, others are left to disappear in an unread draft forever.

There is a project called ‘Nedopysani‘ (‘Unfinished‘ in English). It’s a memorial site for people of literature who will never be able to put that final dot in their notebook, who will never be able to take into their hands their first published book. And so, this is our hard and painful mission. This is what we must do for them. It is inevitable.

Today, we present the next instalment of our translation series, ‘Words Live On’. We have done our best, and we hope that it will speak to our Dear Readers in a way that cold, clinical war statistics cannot. Nika was a bright talent, as her poetry and illustrations attest, and we hope you will honour her memory with us. She was only eighteen, and taken from the world far too soon.

Glory to Ukraine! To our heroes — glory!

The angriest poems that come out are about God.
There it smells of disappointment, frankincense and grief.
The Almighty is mentioned only in the context of absence.
Atheism wakens only in zealous Catholics.
Take up the cross with maimed paws.
Drop a line when you get to Hell.
And while you’re crossing out the signs,
You’re developing haemophilia.
God applies to wounds only empty Bible pages.

Найзліші вірші виходять про Бога.
Там пахне зневірою, ладаном і журбою.
Всевишній згадується лише в контексті відсутності.
Атеїзм прокидається лише в вірних католиків.
Бери хрест до знівечених лап.
Пиши, як ти потрапиш в ад.
І, допоки викреслюєш знаки,
У тебе розвивається гемофілія.
Бог докладає до ран лише порожні сторінки Біблії.

Original poem by VERONIKA KOZHUSHKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024

WORDS LIVE ON // Vasyl Doroshenko

Down through the ages, Russia has tried to kill the Ukrainian identity. They have done everything to present Ukraine as the rural outskirts of the ‘great, educated and advanced’ Russian empire. But the ones who proclaimed themselves enlighteners were merely butchers, murderers. They did everything they could to erase Ukrainian culture, traditions, and even the Ukrainian language itself.

And they are still doing this, even now, literally. During the last eleven years of war, Russia has killed hundreds of people of literature. Writers, poets, translators, editors, publishers and librarians. Ukrainian men and women. As you read these words, others are left to disappear in an unread draft forever.

There is a project called ‘Nedopysani‘ (‘Unfinished‘ in English). It’s a memorial site for people of literature who will never be able to put that final dot in their notebook, who will never be able to take into their hands their first published book. And so, this is our hard and painful mission. This is what we must do for them. It is inevitable.

Today, we present the next instalment of our translation series, ‘Words Live On’. We have done our best, and we hope that it will speak to our Dear Readers in a way that cold, clinical war statistics cannot.

Glory to Ukraine! To our heroes — glory!

A city, where from an abandoned railway track,
And the ruins of a theatre long hushed, grass grows.
’cause there the basements contain more than the roofs.
Maybe, from there something whispers to the grass: “Grow!”
Maybe, one cannot get to know the whole city
’cause the grass has a gift for concealing steps and moves.
One wouldn’t dare to go without the grass’s favour
That swallows the city and a low scream: “Escape!”
And the buzz of kiddies, and the low murmur of a mob…
The grass has flattened the city. But you get to burn the grass…

Місто, де з забутого від залізниці полотна
І від руїн театру, що затих давно, росте трава.
Бо там підвали містять більше ніж дахи.
Напевне, з них й шепочуть тій траві: «Рости!»
Напевне, годі місто те усе пізнати,
Бо має дар трава всі кроки й рухи заховати.
Піти кудись не зважаться без милості трави,
Яка поглине місто і тихий крик: «Втечи!»,
І гомін дітвори, й затвірний гам юрби…
Трава зрівняла місто. А ти траву спали…

Original poem by VASYL DOROSHENKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2013