have you ever felt
that your life is mortgaged
from the very first cry?
they squeeze your persona dry
they gain interest from everything
starting with your imperfect reflection
and its teenaged acne
ending with a type of upholstery
on your second-rate coffin
and nothing really belongs to you
except a nightingale’s song
that reverberates outside your window
every single night
by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024
it’s alright, it’s okay
you can lay me down now
in that circle poised for decay
or maybe tomorrow
or maybe back then
hell knows when
it’ll always be too soon
to attend such sadness but
it’s alright & it’s okay anyway
i need only as long as i get
& maybe moments more
for my life to matter
for to fill it with you
& the scenes we’ll ne’er keep
when our play is done
it’ll always be too soon
for such sadness to mend but
it’s alright to live & die anyway
you pay your debts with pain
then seek a new currency
& nurse that barb wire heart
but ask what joy would do
even when i’m gone
see, it’s alright, it’s okay
it’ll always be too soon
to pen such sadness but
it’s alright & got a poem anyway
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024
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
i’ve wandered far from the shadow where i fell
‘tween the rotted roots of concrete monuments
& the ever glacial drift of meaning
they call me cottonmouth behind my back but
who among can boast of less complicity
or with forethought exercise restraint
& concede that less could be more
at least i’ll admit i am not here to teach you
so learn for yourselves of the self & its value
in this late stage cage of crumbling margins
they call me cottonmouth behind my back but
who among comprehend the half-life of aeons
or can find wisdom so thoroughly hidden
& concede the point without the question
i’ve wandered far from the shadow where i fell
‘tween the monetised myths & wholesale burnings
& the never-ending grift beyond meaning
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2023
unbolt me 