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.

Everything hid in the wee knots
that we were weaving
from the thin grapevines
and bines of green hop.
When still with small steps
we measured the world’s moving metrics.
When still we carried
about the wounds and pains
of plucked herbs
and angry bees.
Everything hid
[from our present sharp eye
from our present alert ear
from our present wrathful shout]
in the ossified
but still alive
those wee knots:
the sun’s zigzags in the head
(after a fizgig dance)
hedgehogs’ trails
(still not forgotten)
and the first bee sting
that introduces pain
(and death).

Усе заховалось у вузлики
що ми їх в’язали
з тонкої лози винограду
та вусів зелених хмелю.
Коли ще малими кроками
міряли метрику рухів світу.
Коли ще тривожились
ранам і болям
зірваних трав
і розгніваних бджіл.
Усе заховалось
[від нашого гострого нині ока
від нашого пильного нині вуха
від нашого злісного нині крику]
у скостенілих
та досі живих
вузликах тих:
зиґзаґи сонця у голові
(після танцю дзиґою)
стежки їжаків
(досі не забуті)
і перше жало бджоли
що знайомить із болем
(і смертю).

Original poems by VIKTOR KROPYVNYI
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
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