Tag Archives: Writing

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Ode To Man. by Thomas Frederick Young

A man is not what oft he seems,
On this terrestrial sphere,
No pow’r to wield, no honor’d place,
Oft curb his spirit here.

He knows not what within him lies,
Until his pow’rs be tried,
And when for them some use is found,
They spring from where they hide,

To startle and to puzzle him,
Who never knew their force,
Because his unfreed spirit kept
A low and shackl’d course.

Dishearten’d and despairing, he
Had often sigh’d alone,
Not thinking that in other ways
His spirit might have grown.

Not thinking that another course,
Which needed pluck and vim,
Might raise his drowning spirit high,
And teach it how to swim;

To battle with the rolling tide,
That hurries onward men,
And raise his head above the waves,
That come and go again.

by THOMAS FREDERICK YOUNG (1892-1940)
Public Domain Poetry

WORDS LIVE ON // Illia Chernilevskyi

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!

Because someone put a leash on my tongue,
because now there is no one to say, “I’m missing,”
because truth is—in fact—not a signpost,
because there are no truths at all in the world.
That’s why your “today”
is only today
and the Sun, like a puppy, licks the earth’s feet,
because all our tears are bitter and salty
emigrated forever to the land of self‑depreciation.
Because the stars are soft, like the heels of infants,
because the whole world, ’til the last drop
explodes each day and flows back into the womb,
like the footprints left by Jesus’s sandals.
Because a word and rhyme long ago
lost their status as weapons of mass destruction,
because the wrinkles appeared
in a gaze at the window,
and you did not notice them
in your daily reflection.

Тому що хтось надів нашийник на мій язик,
тому що нікому казати тепер «I’m missing»,
тому що істина – насправді не вказівник,
тому що в світі взагалі немає ніяких істин.
Тому є твоє «сьогодні»
лише сьогодні
і сонце, що ноги землі, як цуцик, лиже,
тому що всі наші сльози гіркі й солоні
емігрували навіки в країну самопринижень.
Тому що зорі м’які, як п’яти у немовлят,
тому що весь світ до останньої краплі
вибухає щоденно і лине в утробу назад,
як сліди, що лишили Ісуса сандалі.
Тому що слово і рима уже давно
утратили статус зброї масового ураження,
тому що з’явились зморшки
у погляді на вікно,
яких ти не помітив
у щоденному відображенні.

Original poem by ILLIA CHERNILEVSKYI
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2022

WORDS LIVE ON // Mykhailo Marianych

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!

I will shit under a bush in the quiet woodland
In peace, in bliss, amid the scent of grasses
That is nirvana, my dear friends
And like this, in nirvana, no one has ever shitted

Don’t yell, no need to, you’re cynical people
That my poetry’s about the act of defecation
Keep calm, everything will be all right
At the proper time empty your digestive tract

I’m for everything good, may all be well
May only goodness prosper, may evil disappear
And may all kind people live in happiness
May only the Huylo in Moscow drop dead from the shits

Під кущем насеру в тихій лісосмузі
В тиші, у блаженстві, в ароматі трав
Отака нірвана, любі мої друзі
І отак в нірвані ще ніхто не срав

Не кричіть, не треба, ви, цинічні люди
Що в моїй поезії дефекацій акт
Зберігайте спокій, все нормально буде
І звільняйте вчасно ваш кишковий тракт

Я ж за все хороше, хай всім добре буде
Хай добро лиш квітне, і хай щезне зло
Й хай живуть у щасті усі добрі люди
А від срачки здохне у Москві Хуйло

Original poem by MYKHAILO MARIANYCH
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2022

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Sweeping The Floor. by George MacDonald

Sweep and sweep and sweep the floor,
Sweep the dust, pick up the pin;
Make it clean from fire to door,
Clean for father to come in!

Mother said that God goes sweeping,
Looking, sweeping with a broom,
All the time that we are sleeping,
For a shilling in the room:

Did he drop it out of glory,
Walking far above the birds?
Or did parson make the story
For the thinking afterwards?

If I were the swept-for shilling
I would hearken through the gloom;
Roll out fast, and fall down willing
Right before the sweeping broom!

by GEORGE MACDONALD (1824-1905)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // If by H.C. Dodge

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