If a man could live a thousand years,
When half his life had passed,
He might, by strict economy,
A fortune have amassed.
Then having gained some common-sense,
And knowledge, too, of life,
He could select the woman who
Would make him a true wife.
But as it is, man hasn’t time
To even pay his debts,
And weds to be acquainted with
The woman whom he gets.
by H.C. DODGE (1865-1915)
Public Domain Poetry
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. Nika was a bright talent, as her poetry and illustrations attest, and we hope you will honour her memory with us. She was only eighteen, and taken from the world far too soon.
Glory to Ukraine! To our heroes — glory!
The angriest poems that come out are about God.
There it smells of disappointment, frankincense and grief.
The Almighty is mentioned only in the context of absence.
Atheism wakens only in zealous Catholics.
Take up the cross with maimed paws.
Drop a line when you get to Hell.
And while you’re crossing out the signs,
You’re developing haemophilia.
God applies to wounds only empty Bible pages.
Найзліші вірші виходять про Бога.
Там пахне зневірою, ладаном і журбою.
Всевишній згадується лише в контексті відсутності.
Атеїзм прокидається лише в вірних католиків.
Бери хрест до знівечених лап.
Пиши, як ти потрапиш в ад.
І, допоки викреслюєш знаки,
У тебе розвивається гемофілія.
Бог докладає до ран лише порожні сторінки Біблії.
Original poem by VERONIKA KOZHUSHKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024
Twin stars, aloft in ether clear,
Around each other roll alway,
Within one common atmosphere
Of their own mutual light and day.
And myriad happy eyes are bent
Upon their changeless love alway;
As, strengthened by their one intent,
They pour the flood of life and day.
So we through this world’s waning night
May, hand in hand, pursue our way;
Shed round us order, love, and light,
And shine unto the perfect day.
by CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819–1875)
Public Domain Poetry
One who claims that he knows about it
Tells me the earth is a vale of sin;
But I and the bees, and the birds we doubt it,
And think it a world worth living in.
Whatever you want, if you wish for it long,
With constant yearning and ceaseless desire,
If your wish soars upward on wings so strong
That they never grow languid, never tire,
Why, over the storm cloud and out of the dark
It will come flying some day to you,
As the dove with the olive branch flew to the ark,
And the wish you’ve been dreaming,
it will come true.
by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX (1855–1919)
Public Domain Poetry
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!
A city, where from an abandoned railway track,
And the ruins of a theatre long hushed, grass grows.
’cause there the basements contain more than the roofs.
Maybe, from there something whispers to the grass: “Grow!”
Maybe, one cannot get to know the whole city
’cause the grass has a gift for concealing steps and moves.
One wouldn’t dare to go without the grass’s favour
That swallows the city and a low scream: “Escape!”
And the buzz of kiddies, and the low murmur of a mob…
The grass has flattened the city. But you get to burn the grass…
Місто, де з забутого від залізниці полотна
І від руїн театру, що затих давно, росте трава.
Бо там підвали містять більше ніж дахи.
Напевне, з них й шепочуть тій траві: «Рости!»
Напевне, годі місто те усе пізнати,
Бо має дар трава всі кроки й рухи заховати.
Піти кудись не зважаться без милості трави,
Яка поглине місто і тихий крик: «Втечи!»,
І гомін дітвори, й затвірний гам юрби…
Трава зрівняла місто. А ти траву спали…
Original poem by VASYL DOROSHENKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2013
unbolt me 