Tag Archives: Writings

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

mark 8:36

every last piece of evidence
dissolved as i lay there in silence
the gold rush of my youth had gone
with nothing to show for in my pan
they steeled their bonds with stagecoach power
left me to rot in riverbed dreams
built their nations on monied towers
groundhog foundations all the way downstream

who cares that i’d had better angels
who cares that they were both now gone
who cares that i’d compromised my self
who cares that i’d vainly strove to fit in

& just like that, i saw men raptured
fond memories, their bullions in tow
they were headed for headier climes
as i died face down, the dead of noon
was fortune a living catastrophe
i was simply forced to decay through
a treasure refined for all but me
rippling away, spangles downstream

who cares that i’d needed dnipro
who cares that i’d gambled george town
who cares that the world could only take
who cares that i could now only break

every last bit of evidence
just like that, had raptured away
the gold rush of my youth was gone
my bones left behind to clot in dreams
the world had taken all it wanted
the little that i’d held in my hands
the fulgurate clumps long picked clean
by bream, the rest long washed downstream

who cares that i’d puddled down under
who cares that i’d puddled in ukraine
who cares that i’d struggled for it all
who cares that i’d done finally fall

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025

i can’t get enough sox

i find it hard to imagine you knitting
without tangled fingers & rage quitting
your slim fingers were made to hold glasses of wine
your nails to clear daintily between the tines
your tongue to lick oyster juice, not frayed yarn edges
your toes to sun carefree over marble ledges
your hair to smell like a honeyed summer wind
your tummy to be desired, your skin on my skin
but when i find clumsy wool socks on my pillow
you’ve placed lovingly over cottoned billow
i’m melting with affection, all florid desire
so i slip them on, pull their li’l hems higher
we drink wine, eat oysters, make love on the beach
you rather like me in socks in july’s hot reach
don’t you

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024

TATI’s AND TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Pig by Rudyard Kipling

Go, stalk the red deer o’er the heather,
Ride, follow the fox if you can!
But, for pleasure and profit together,
Allow me the hunting of Man,
The chase of the Human, the search for the Soul
To its ruin, the hunting of Man.

by RUDYARD KIPLING (1865-1936)
Public Domain Poetry

maggots are gutting america

there’s nothing left to see
in that vale of vile fenestration
there’s nothing left to say
we did you once
we’ll do you twice

only you are to blame
the hearty molestations
of our collective indifference
are the consequence
of your consent

you dare to lift reproachful eyes
against us
you put your fist in the mouth of truth
hoping to silence us forever
but what is truth
apart from what we say

had you have known better
that hope is a curse
a curse of diminished returns
then would you have demanded
we to add a braille of tears
to your perforated skin
no, we’ll stab you again & again
& again with joyful contempt
crying bitch

you looked up to us, fool
as well you should
until our sun & stars finally stole your sight
truly, what are you doing here

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025