Tag Archives: Writings

how about love

are you the right hand of god
are you the hand left in darkness
well, never you mind, boy
be a man & do no harm
lay down your arms, boy
lay down your arms

bear your holly crown, boy
bear it with compassion for
your turn in the sun is nearly over
& soon i hope you’ll understand
that lust for legacy’s absurd
death & glory are just words

never you mind your pretty head
you could be dancing in the rain
just lay down your arms, boy
be a man & do no harm
lay down your arms

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Critic And Poet. by Emma Lazarus

An Apologue.

(“Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impassioned; this man is neither simple, sensuous, nor impassioned; therefore he is not a poet.”)

No man had ever heard a nightingale,
When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred
To study and define – what is a bird,
To classify by rote and book, nor fail
To mark its structure and to note the scale
Whereon its song might possibly be heard.
Thus far, no farther; – so he spake the word.
When of a sudden, – hark, the nightingale!

Oh deeper, higher than he could divine
That all-unearthly, untaught strain! He saw
The plain, brown warbler, unabashed. “Not mine”
(He cried) “the error of this fatal flaw.
No bird is this, it soars beyond my line,
Were it a bird, ‘t would answer to my law.”

by EMMA LAZARUS (1849-1887)
Public Domain Poetry

martyrdom

woke was such a first-class word
when used to club the ones you hated
but when it meant human kindness
you told all babies to go stop crying
more bodies for your amendment
made for an acceptable trade
in your esteemed estimation
freedom to brutalise was king

‘prove me wrong’ was ever your mantra
when even you were provably wrong
had you known what this would reap
would you’ve chosen to cut out your tongue
when dogma is paved with the blood
the pain of the disenfranchised
bigotry looks a lot less like reason
& more like what it actually is

now at the end of your short life
riding vermillion neck spray
it’s a vip one-way ticket
up to your imagined heaven
but even with your mic in hand
dumb wee trophy, make no mistake
whatever your god may say
we the people still vomit you up

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025

GUEST POST // snap by Robert Greig

summer is over
when snapdragons finally
give up the ghost…

by ROBERT GREIG
© All rights reserved 2025

WORDS LIVE ON // Maksym Kryvtsov

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!

My head rolls from grove to grove
like a tumbleweed
or a ball
my hands severed
will sprout with violets in spring
my legs
will be scattered by dogs and cats
my blood
will paint the world in a brand new red
Pantone human blood
my bones
will absorb into the soil
make a frame
my bullet riddled machine gun
will rust
poor thingy
my spare clothes and loadout
they pass to rookies
and let the spring come sooner
so finally
I can bloom
like a violet.

Моя голова котиться від посадки до посадки
як перекотиполе
чи м’яч
мої руки відірвані
проростуть фіалками навесні
мої ноги
розтягнуть собаки та коти
моя кров
вифарбує світ у новий червоний
Pantone людська кров
мої кістки
втягнуться в землю
утворять каркас
мій прострелений автомат
заржавіє
бідненький
мої зміні речі та екіпу
передадуть новобранцям
та скоріше б уже весна
щоб нарешті
розквітнути
фіалкою.

Original poem by MAKSYM KRYVTSOV
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024