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.

the last letter to K

dear friend,
i miss
your dreams come no more
to me in reality.

if you knew
how many fates were twisted,
smoked away, half-eaten by dogs
how many letters gather dust in mailboxes
concolourous with dried blood
and how many vows left behind only poetries
somewhere in the bowels of my telegram.

i am much the same as usual
outside the window are the crooked teeth of apartments
with leftovers of the staled unsaid
just got more quiet
it nestles on my knees, purrs,
eats away all my hunger
and i feel the thirst for life no more.

dear friend,
god turns off the light
sleep, i will carry your love protest
i will carry your hate
i will carry your sexual desire
depart with ease
let your fear continue hereafter
suffocate in oblivion.

останній лист до К

милий друже,
я сумую
твої сни уже більше не проходять
до мене на яву.

знав би ти
скільки доль скручено,
скурено, виїдено собаками
скільки листів запилюжені у скринях
кольору засохлої крові
і від скількох клятв залишились лиш вірші
десь у надрах мого телеграму.

у мене ж усе так само
за вікном нерівні зуби квартир
із недоїдками закипілої недосказаності
лише от більше спокою
він моститься у мене на колінах, муркотить,
з’їдає мій весь голод
і я уже не відчуваю спрагу до життя.

любий друже,
бог вимикає світло
засинай, я берегтиму твій протест любові
я берегтиму твою ненависть
я берегтиму твоє сексуальне бажання
помирай спокійно
нехай твій страх і надалі
задихається у забутті.

Original poem by DARII LAZHNEVSKYI
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
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