Tag Archives: Writing

TATI’S TRANSLATIONS // Young Ukrainian Poets: Viktoriia Feshchuk

Tati Translates Viktoriia Feshchuk

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.

Untitled

in your cathedral
maries refuse to cry
have sent their sons and daughters to protect the city
and stand stern, concentrated.

their prayers kept close
abreast with the eyes
abreast with the things around,
with which you can cover, or handle
as a weapon.

meanwhile from above
the viscous silence.
there you can distinguish an angel from a bird
a native one from a migrant.

and if maries hear natives
then, before the wailing starts,
they give a severe reprimand.
waiting for obedience.

Без назви

у твоїм соборі
богородиці відмовляються плакати
відправили синів і доньок захищати місто
і стоять суворі, зібрані.

їхні молитви при собі
на рівні очей
на рівні предметів довкола,
якими можна прикритись чи взяти до рук
зброєю.

а згори тимчасом
тягуча тиша.
у такій відрізниш янгола від птаха
свого від перелітного.

і якщо почують своїх
то, поперед голосінню,
сильно висварять.
чекатимуть послуху.

Original poem by VIKTORIIA FESHCHUK
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024

TROTTERSVILLE #1

Dear Readers, despite our decision to make 2024 the Year of Poetry on unbolt.me, it’s still essential to break the rules occasionally—especially when we’re feeling particularly naughty. Of course, we also hope to make 2024 the Year of the Graphic Novel—our fingers are firmly crossed on that one.

Anyway, how does this all relate to the silly little piggy strip you see below? It doesn’t! It’s all just stuff that we’re doing because we enjoy being creative. A poem here. A graphic novel there. A piggy strip or two. These things keep us on our toes, and will hopefully keep you engaged too, Dear Readers. We want to entertain you!

The strip below is another great opportunity for Tati to sharpen her translator claws—or, rather, dig her translator muzzle into some sweet word mud—whichever tortured metaphor works for you. We hope this little nothingness can entertain you and make you happy. And perhaps it can show you how differently language can work from one culture to another in the medium of comics. Should you find yourselves loving this effort then please consider supporting us on Patreon or Ko-fi—that would make us very happy too!

  • Today’s Outlook
  • Передбача на сьогодні

 

by TONY SINGLE & TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024

TATI’S TRANSLATIONS // Young Ukrainian Poets: Daryna Chupat

Tati Translates Daryna Chupat

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.

Untitled

i always walk this very road
where a scar blackens the asphalt
a braking path
i come back here again and again
though to the old pain
it is better to not come back

rain so often
raises between us
a wall of crying
all for nothing
august made all trees autumnal
i put the dry flesh of berries
into my mouth
like the words
that i can’t stick to

i have promised to love for two
but my love lacks for any one

Без назви

я постійно ходжу тією дорогою
де на асфальті чорніє шрам
гальмівного сліду
я знову й знову приходжу сюди
хоча до старого болю
краще не повертатися

дощ так часто
зводить між нами
стіну плачу
та дарма:
серпень зробив всі дерева осінніми
я кладу
сухі тіла ягід собі до рота
наче слова яких не можу
дотримати

я обіцяла любити за двох
та моєї любові не вистачить ні на кого

Original poem by DARYNA CHUPAT
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2023

GUEST POST // I Live in a House of Cats by Jen Payne

I live in a house of cats:

three before that were

one – Emily
after the poet
loved blue jays
a thing with feathers

and two – CJ
namesake Joy but
arrived with grief
that lifted with love

then 3 – Crystal
so full of life and love
she sparkled!

[ There were two drifters

Moose, who lived next door but preferred to garden here

and Little Black Kitty who learned to trust slowly but enough ]

Of course Lola,
Zen master
lost then found
found me

Now: Molly
Good Golly,
is Whippersnapper
a name for a cat?

by JEN PAYNE
© All rights reserved 2023

GUEST POST // Small Provincial Station by Chris Nelson

We met when we were strangers
On platforms changing trains
Time would never be the same
No season spoke the dangers,
Our faces wore expressions
Of kindred spirit found
Our voices made no sound
No doubts and no transgressions,
We stood aside the crossroad
And looked along each way
Hoping for another day
To break the secret code,
We met when we were strangers
On platforms changing trains
But I could feel the hurt and reins
Beneath my feet the dangers,
We met when we were strangers
But I knew even then
That I was nothing more
Than a small
Provincial
Station.

by CHRIS NELSON
© All rights reserved 2023