Tag Archives: Writing

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

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Dove And The Ant. by Jean de La Fontaine

The same instruction we may get
From another couple, smaller yet.

A dove came to a brook to drink,
When, leaning o’er its crumbling brink,
An ant fell in, and vainly tried,
In this, to her, an ocean tide,
To reach the land; whereat the dove,
With every living thing in love,
Was prompt a spire of grass to throw her,
By which the ant regain’d the shore.

A barefoot scamp, both mean and sly,
Soon after chanced this dove to spy;
And, being arm’d with bow and arrow,
The hungry codger doubted not
The bird of Venus, in his pot,
Would make a soup before the morrow.
Just as his deadly bow he drew,
Our ant just bit his heel.
Roused by the villain’s squeal,
The dove took timely hint, and flew
Far from the rascal’s coop; –
And with her flew his soup.

by JEAN DE LA FONTAINE (1621-1695)
Public Domain Poetry

WORDS LIVE ON // Volodymyr Vakulenko

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!

SURVIVAL KIT

Pack yourself into survival kits –
It is what it is, someone doesn’t, and someone fits.
Those who won’t, always have gorging on their thoughts,
That’s why I suggest to stuff the kits with poets.
They speak to the point, aren’t great eaters
But every one of them is a mighty stage speaker
And it sounds like thunder, their rhymed word…
I didn’t fit. Don’t you need my sort?

ТРИВОЖНА ВАЛІЗА

Пакуйте себе у тривожні валізи –
Це ж діло таке, хтось ні, а хтось влізе.
Не влізуть хто вічно із думкою жерти,
Тому я б порадив напхати поетів.
Говорять по ділу, їдять не багато
З них кожен могутній на сцені оратор
І громом гримить їх римоване слово…
Не вліз у валізу. Не треба такого?

Original poem by VOLODYMYR VAKULENKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2022

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Lobster-Quadrille by Lewis Carroll

“Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail,
“There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle, will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?

“You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!”
But the snail replied “Too far, too far!” and gave a look askance,
Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

“What matters it how far we go?” his scaly friend replied.
“There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The further off from England the nearer is to France,
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?

by LEWIS CARROLL (1832-1898)
Public Domain Poetry