Tag Archives: Stand with Ukraine

WORDS LIVE ON // Viktoriia Amelina

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!

Do you see the woman with her arm stretched back?
Like she is pulling a suitcase or leading someone behind her
The invisible suitcase is heavy because the woman walks slowly
Such women are called insane by society

She had nothing left to take from her burned down house
And who’d lived with her there, now nobody knows
But they follow her and the youngest one cannot keep up
And then the woman stops, she is always waiting for him

Бачиш жінку з простягнутою назад рукою?
Вона ніби тягне валізу або веде когось за собою
Невидима валіза важка, бо жінка іде повільно
Такі жінки загалом називаються божевільні

Їй нічого було брати з її згорілого дому
І хто там із нею жив, невідомо тепер нікому
Але вони йдуть за нею і молодший все не встигає
І жінка тоді зупиняється: вона завжди на нього чекає

Original poem by VIKTORIIA AMELINA
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2023

WORDS LIVE ON // Taras Matviiv

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!

Excrement

Oh Lord, why do you churn out
the sick, the orphans, the starving,
the homeless and drunkards, junkies,
the heathens and sodomites, plotters,
barricaders and the majority? –
create finally in Your likeness!

Екскремент

О Господи, нащо плодиш
хворих, сиріт, голодних,
бездомних і п’яниць, наркоманів,
безбожників й содомітів, інтриганів,
барикадників та більшість? –
сотвори врешті Свою подобу!

Original poem by TARAS MATVIIV
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2020

WORDS LIVE ON // Ihor Mysiak

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!

Saltern (to Drohobych)

This is not like dawdling in a bookstore,
looking for the seen and unseen for ages,
look, at this saltern
nobody memorises poems about winter.
There’s stillness, but for wintering
even this is not enough of course,
how do you feel standing near the building
that is older than your entire city…
While the noble trees burn,
crackling beneath the pots,
winter goes slowly to the last stop,
and then what will happen to us?
What will happen? Or is everything in vain?
Snow has dwindled, like guests at the end of a wedding,
how do you feel being at the saltern?
How do you feel being the salt?

Солеварня (Дрогобичу)

Це тобі не сидіти в книгарні,
вічно шукати зриме й незриме,
подивися, на цій солеварні
ніхто не знає віршів про зиму.
Тут є спокій та для зимівлі
і цього не достатньо звісно,
як тобі стояти біля будівлі,
яка старша за твоє місто…
Доки горять благородні дерева,
потріскуючи під казанами,
зима повільно йде на кінцеву,
і що тоді буде з нами?
Що тоді буде? Чи все намарно?
Снігу, як гостей в кінці весілля,
як тобі бути на солеварні?
Як тобі бути сіллю?

Original poem by IHOR MYSIAK
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2020

WORDS LIVE ON // Maksym Kryvtsov

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!

My head rolls from grove to grove
like a tumbleweed
or a ball
my hands severed
will sprout with violets in spring
my legs
will be scattered by dogs and cats
my blood
will paint the world in a brand new red
Pantone human blood
my bones
will absorb into the soil
make a frame
my bullet riddled machine gun
will rust
poor thingy
my spare clothes and loadout
they pass to rookies
and let the spring come sooner
so finally
I can bloom
like a violet.

Моя голова котиться від посадки до посадки
як перекотиполе
чи м’яч
мої руки відірвані
проростуть фіалками навесні
мої ноги
розтягнуть собаки та коти
моя кров
вифарбує світ у новий червоний
Pantone людська кров
мої кістки
втягнуться в землю
утворять каркас
мій прострелений автомат
заржавіє
бідненький
мої зміні речі та екіпу
передадуть новобранцям
та скоріше б уже весна
щоб нарешті
розквітнути
фіалкою.

Original poem by MAKSYM KRYVTSOV
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024

clusterfuck summit

tati says it’s time to replace
‘spanish shame’ with ‘american shame’
or, more accurately, ‘maga’—
‘moscow agent grifting america’

are you happy, fat elephants
rolling out the red carpet
for this political circus
this baked alaska of fascism

tony says it’s time to get real
the butchers of bucha want more
putin-khulyo & thin-skin trump
a shit lord stroll between the bodies

ahem, pechenegs & polovtsy
you say ukraine’s a fake country
lenin invented it, so—
‘we will kill & trade land, a peace deal’

ukraine’s not perfect, we won’t argue
but let us exist on our own
without your pallid botox cheeks
& edema legs, you fucking cowboys

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025