he gave me a shabby old pouch
filled up with pomegranate seeds
& i wondered what this could mean
how fertile he wished me to be
he showed how many seeds i got
as much as happy days are left
& i swore we’d marry right there
no priest nor church ‘neath nude sun’s haze
he squeezed a seed ‘tween two fingers
& the juice sprinkled his palm red
like virginity on crisp sheets
i did not even hesitate
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024
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
i am not your project
not in need of saving
to be restored from drafts
nor be redone from scratch
not a work in progress
nor a fixer-upper
not in your portfolio
nor part of your cv
so kindly fuck right off
you smug, self-righteous toff
look for another dunce
to suffer your ‘guidance’
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024
that one with the punched lungs
has taught me to breathe freely
to expand in every moment
my view beyond the horizon
has taught me to get drunk on air
raise a toast to the blissful life
uncork & exhale my dreams
& inhale all possibilities
that one with the punched lungs
has taught me not to hie away
from each rum quaff of oxygen
each gulp, each gasp, could be the last
has taught me to square my shoulders
wear my sailor’s crown on high
walk the plank with a shambler’s jaunt
use my voice with ne’er a grumble
that one with the punched lungs
has taught me to sing shanties
to marinate beneath the stars
away from landlocked bores
has taught me to stand before storms
to know my place within them all
when even acid rain stings my lungs
when even the mast punches my lungs
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024
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
unbolt me 