Tag Archives: Writing

GUEST POST // Twinkle, Twinkle by Whitecatgrove

O south star through the trees seen — where are
your kin on this flustered night? Hidden,
shy, sequestered in the sky above
the cooling clouds and their sparkling motes.

The half-empty moon has tipped his cup,
let the dregs fall upon the slumbered Earth.
We travel from darkness to darkness,
the light intermittent, inconstant,

afflicted with mighty tracts of void.
Your perturbations are a matter
of atmosphere: that is to say, Earth,
not that mighty glare on the other side

of time. We are phantoms: you of the past
long-dissipated, me of the future
yet unimagined, each tender view
occluded by ice crystals and chance —

by WHITECATGROVE
© All rights reserved 2026

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Song. by Thomas Runciman

Life with the sun in it –
Shaded by gloom!
Life with the fun in it –
Shadowed by Doom!

Life with its Love ever haunted by Hate!
Life’s laughing morrows frowned over by Fate!
Young Life’s wild gladness still waylaid by Age!
All its sweet badness still mocking the sage!
What can e’er measure the joy of its strife?

What boundless leisure
Count the heaped treasure
Of woe, that’s the pleasure
And beauty of Life?

by THOMAS RUNCIMAN (1841 – 1909)
Public Domain Poetry

WORDS LIVE ON // Serhii Naumenko

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!

if a lion or a cougar
start hunting you
don’t worry, don’t fight
don’t be afraid of
it makes sense to keep to one side
stray dogs and rats.
the predators with appetite
for you
are hardly
carnivorous.

якщо лев чи пума
почнуть полювання на тебе
не страшно, не бийся
не бійся
варто обабіч триматись
бродячих собак і щурів.
хижаки з апетитом
на тебе
навряд чи
м’ясоїди.

Original poem by SERHII NAUMENKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2020

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Poet Care by Victor James Daley

Care is a Poet fine:
He works in shade or shine,
And leaves, you know his sign!
No day without its line.

He writes with iron pen
Upon the brows of men;
Faint lines at first, and then
He scores them in again.

His touch at first is light
On Beauty’s brow of white;
The old churl loves to write
On foreheads broad and bright.

A line for young love crossed,
A line for fair hopes lost
In an untimely frost,
A line that means Thou Wast.

Then deeper script appears:
The furrows of dim fears,
The traces of old tears,
The tide-marks of the years.

To him with sight made strong
By suffering and wrong,
The brows of all the throng
Are eloquent with song.

by VICTOR JAMES DALEY (1858-1905)
Public Domain Poetry

WORDS LIVE ON // Oleh Kliufas

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!

It’s as if the watch is an hour and a half slow
You go to work or the cinema, take a train
Everything is to schedule, on time, as it ought to be
But the watch keeps saving some time for later

Unless it’s Sunday, you wake up late in the morning
And you don’t have to go anywhere, then you take
The watch in your hand and count the time on it
Well, it looks like it’s now finally keeping good time

But tomorrow, on Monday, everything is in place again
Once again, you can’t fix that hour and a half
Because you don’t have time to take the watch in for repair…
Something like that happens with an overdue Christmas

Just tell your kids, if they haven’t learnt yet
That Saint Nicholas and Koliada come a little bit quicker
When they set the watch back by yesterday, on their own
And you can sleep the whole Sunday, if you wish

То як годинник, що відстав на півтори години
Ти ходиш на роботу чи в кіно, сідаєш в потяг
Все вчасно, без запізнень, все цілком як має бути
Але годинник далі відкладає час на потім

Хіба коли неділя, вранці ти встаєш пізніше
І йти тобі не треба нікуди, тоді береш ти
Годинник свій на руку і рахуєш час по ньому
Так, ніби він все правильно показує нарешті

А завтра, в понеділок, знову все на свому місці
І знову півтори години виправити годі
Бо все часу нема годинник той в ремонт занести…
Десь так то і з Різдвом протермінованим виходить

Ти тільки дітям то скажи, як ще вони не взнали
Що Миколай і Коляда приходять трохи скорше
Вони самі докрутять той годинник вже на вчора
А ти собі в неділю спи хоч цілий день як хочеш

Original poem by OLEH KLIUFAS
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2023