Tag Archives: Writings

ménace à trois

yeah, seagal loves putin, besties forever
see them carve it out in a heart on a tree
better still on warm bodies
& i’m sure their mutual wankery
is the one true path to enlightenment

why would they live to serve
when they can shirk all that’s deserved
shitting themselves in a shared hole
of their own making, always taking
we all know how this story goes

putin hates zelenskyy, enemies forever
see him carve it out on a nuclear tease
better still on still bodies
i’m sure his religion of geography
is the one true path to dominance

they both have skin in the game
a bit more so than you & me
yet all we can do is sit & argue
does might make right, peace less so
we all know how this story goes

yeah, trump loves trump, cahoots forever
see him carve it out on democracy
better still on nubile bodies
& i’m sure his lies & weaselry
is the one true path to supremacy

still dodging the arm of law
all we can do is cheer or boo him
& putin plays trump like a fiddle
as both try to outstrongman seagal
we all know how this fucking story goes

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024

GUEST POST // Islands by Whitecatgrove

I who have known pain: You say, not this pain —
Your pain runs wider and deeper than mine.
Your pain thoroughly over-canyons mine
out-oceans mine, thrusting a fiery head
up from the mountaining deeps, your pain heaps
a new island stone by stone, bare and black,
licked by flame — your pain and mine are not the same —

to which I offer a palm and say: look.
That open sky swallows our smaller lives,
spits them out in some mightier place — or shits
them, it’s good to be humble. Look: a bird
leaf-beaked alights upon that lonely shore.
Not my bird or your bird, but its own bird,
other-bird, leading the way to fresh cliffs.

A bird brings seeds, drops seeds, shits seeds, a bird
drawn there to the heaped ruin you call yourself.
You cannot know this bird, you have always known
this bird, this holy spirit, white as the salt
in your tears. This bird nests in your pain, builds
paradise. Hope floats its coconut in,
unbidden, under that embracing sky.

by WHITECATGROVE
© All rights reserved 2024

TATI’S TRANSLATIONS // Young Ukrainian Poets: Bohdan Bratus

Tati Translates Bohdan Bratus

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.

A poem about November

Again, I’ve lived until the Fall
Though last November
the way felt insurmountable
The Father says
the Winter will be tough
so, we should do the
canning
The poems are the same
‘bout November
I start to write in July

Вірш про листопад

Знову дожив до осені
Хоча минулого листопаду
нездоланним здавався шлях
Каже батько
що зима буде важка
тож треба робити
закрутки
Так само вірші
про листопад
починаю писати з липня

Original poem by BOHDAN BRATUS
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024

timeless regret

in the beginning was false light
all hope with zero substance
in the beginning was a false start
all hopeful disqualification

where is your shining future
has zeal undershot the mark
the wooden veneer has rotted
on the springboard of your past

the guts of your journey is now
no space for before or hereafter
no time for you to distinguish
starting lines or finishing ribbons

in the end silence lays with you
deathbed’s unwanted dire love
in the end you lay with the four walls
and posters of promised yesterdays

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Lessons by Sara Teasdale

Unless I learn to ask no help
From any other soul but mine,
To seek no strength in waving reeds
Nor shade beneath a straggling pine;
Unless I learn to look at Grief
Unshrinking from her tear-blind eyes,
And take from Pleasure fearlessly
Whatever gifts will make me wise
Unless I learn these things on earth,
Why was I ever given birth?

by SARA TEASDALE (1884-1933)
Public Domain Poetry