TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Dove And The Ant. by Jean de La Fontaine

The same instruction we may get
From another couple, smaller yet.

A dove came to a brook to drink,
When, leaning o’er its crumbling brink,
An ant fell in, and vainly tried,
In this, to her, an ocean tide,
To reach the land; whereat the dove,
With every living thing in love,
Was prompt a spire of grass to throw her,
By which the ant regain’d the shore.

A barefoot scamp, both mean and sly,
Soon after chanced this dove to spy;
And, being arm’d with bow and arrow,
The hungry codger doubted not
The bird of Venus, in his pot,
Would make a soup before the morrow.
Just as his deadly bow he drew,
Our ant just bit his heel.
Roused by the villain’s squeal,
The dove took timely hint, and flew
Far from the rascal’s coop; –
And with her flew his soup.

by JEAN DE LA FONTAINE (1621-1695)
Public Domain Poetry

a joke is born

more bad poetry
& scribbles in the margins
ready the tissues
cue the gothic orchestra
sackcloth, keening & ashes

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025

WORDS LIVE ON // Volodymyr Vakulenko

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!

SURVIVAL KIT

Pack yourself into survival kits –
It is what it is, someone doesn’t, and someone fits.
Those who won’t, always have gorging on their thoughts,
That’s why I suggest to stuff the kits with poets.
They speak to the point, aren’t great eaters
But every one of them is a mighty stage speaker
And it sounds like thunder, their rhymed word…
I didn’t fit. Don’t you need my sort?

ТРИВОЖНА ВАЛІЗА

Пакуйте себе у тривожні валізи –
Це ж діло таке, хтось ні, а хтось влізе.
Не влізуть хто вічно із думкою жерти,
Тому я б порадив напхати поетів.
Говорять по ділу, їдять не багато
З них кожен могутній на сцені оратор
І громом гримить їх римоване слово…
Не вліз у валізу. Не треба такого?

Original poem by VOLODYMYR VAKULENKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA

© All rights reserved 2022

weltschmerz

your voice echoes back from yesteryear
as i perch on the edge of hope & fear
once more there’s this pang of you not here
the sun leers through cloud’s shame above
upon grounded white crow & black dove
whose answer for the wrong question needs love

tar soap scent atween the birches
your shadow no longer afore me
just othering eyes from briar to fens

your hand reaches through the fullness of time
untold happenstance of future clime
dusts sensate shoulder with earthly rhyme
it signals to turn that withered page
to uncloy myself from ferocity’s cage
release sweet sadness & fathomless rage

tar soap scent atween the birches
your shadow no longer afore me
just othering eyes from briar to fens

now & again when i turn to look back
i still see you not here & your hand’s slack
still you’re part of me on this doomen track
in these memories of you i abide
what remains of you the urn at my side
with no hope of turning time’s avian tide

tar soap scent atween the birches
your shadow no longer afore me
just othering eyes from briar to fens

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024

noel

there’s less ahead than what came before
but when a man meets the mountain
he asks why it keeps standing there
& thinks not to count his blessings

the man would sooner meet a well
whereupon he’d drink deep down
plumbing the depths of misery
beneath the mistletoe abandoned

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025