the black stains
of morning coffee
on a white tablecloth
others prefer fortune telling
with coffee grounds
but i believe in vapour
& its aerial butoh dance
above the cup’s abyss
forbearance sucks
& gravitas falls
on the white tablecloth
i see bare, broken twigs
against a blue sky
will this coffee be the only darkness
that fills me today
i take a sip, open my news feed
by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2025
IMPORTANT NOTE: While we were working on our translation of the following poems, we learned that Anna (its author) is originally from Poltava. She has family there, and on the 1st February her aunt was killed when the Russian bastards hit yet another residential building. Yes, it has been almost three years and still there is a war. It should be beyond any doubt that Russia is a terrorist state and that Putin is a war criminal. We implore our readers to stand with Ukraine and help end this tyranny once and for all.
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.
White flowers (series) – selected poems
time stopped inside the body
like air
in a punched ball
that was left by a boy in a yard
before the shelling of his house
*
my heart is
a yellow butterfly
that flutters around
the emptied street
to the sounds of a siren
like it is music
*
war peace
peace war
and what is between?
i see white flowers sprout
*
every time when pain
becomes unbearable
look at this white flower
and then at another one
and the one behind
they are here to give you
all the best they have gotten to know
from water sun and wind
Білі квіти (цикл) – обрані поезії
час у тілі зупинився
як повітря
у пробитому м’ячику
який лишив хлопчик у дворі
перед обстрілом свого дому
*
моє серце це
жовтий метелик
що кружляє по
спорожнілій вулиці
під звуки сирени
так ніби то музика
*
війна мир
мир війна
а поміж що?
бачу білі квіти проростають
*
щоразу як біль
стає нестерпним
поглянь на цю білу квітку
а потім на іншу
і ту що за нею
вони тут щоб віддати тобі
все найкраще що пізнали
з води сонця і вітру
Original poems by ANNA YUTCHENKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2025
i should be alive
but i’m always waiting in the wings
what’s my line, what should i be
is there a place onstage for me
brown people are dying
i’m so fucking impotent
somebody help them
somebody better than me
i should be alive
not a white invader
not a white saviour
with thoughts such as these
people are dying
while i’m enmired in
the ‘how is this me’
& the luxury of guilt
i should be alive
improvise my own intention
reach into myself
reach out to others
we all grow old, don’t we
& wish we had more time
unless we’re brown
& then living is a crime
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025
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.
That Cossack had not any trace of a wound on himself,
only happened in childhood to prick the skin of his fingertips:
with a needle, which followed by a red thread of blood,
it stitched finely, drew nicely,
tightened well.
He was a noble Cossack. But had chosen a delicate job:
instead of cleaving enemies he stitched the cleaved ones
alive through living flesh for the sake of life.
He saw the little things and could lessen them to a handful.
He noticed, how lungs released their final air,
like they opened with an inhale and raised a soul to the sky —
he looked, like it was a dim drop of himself.
Sometimes he observed, how in a moment before a bullet pierces a body
the third eye opened and watched impassively,
how the air trembled from the bullet’s motion.
Той козак не мав на собі рани ані сліду,
тільки траплялося в дитинстві вколоти на пучках шкіру:
голкою, за якою тягнулась червона нитка крові,
вишивала дрібно, малювала добірно,
стягувала добротно.
Славним був козаком. Але вибрав тоншу роботу:
замість тяти ворога зашивав потятих
живих по живому життя заради.
Бачив дрібне і вмів змаліти до жмені.
Помічав, як останнє повітря випускали легені,
як із вдихом розправлялись і підносили душу до неба —
дивився, ніби в мутну краплину зі себе.
Іноді зауважував, як за мить до входження кулі в тіло
розплющувалося третє око і незворушно дивилося,
як від руху кулі повітря тремтіло.
Original poem by ORYSIA HRUDKA
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024
unbolt me 