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.
That Cossack had not any trace of a wound on himself,
only happened in childhood to prick the skin of his fingertips:
with a needle, which followed by a red thread of blood,
it stitched finely, drew nicely,
tightened well.
He was a noble Cossack. But had chosen a delicate job:
instead of cleaving enemies he stitched the cleaved ones
alive through living flesh for the sake of life.
He saw the little things and could lessen them to a handful.
He noticed, how lungs released their final air,
like they opened with an inhale and raised a soul to the sky —
he looked, like it was a dim drop of himself.
Sometimes he observed, how in a moment before a bullet pierces a body
the third eye opened and watched impassively,
how the air trembled from the bullet’s motion.
Той козак не мав на собі рани ані сліду,
тільки траплялося в дитинстві вколоти на пучках шкіру:
голкою, за якою тягнулась червона нитка крові,
вишивала дрібно, малювала добірно,
стягувала добротно.
Славним був козаком. Але вибрав тоншу роботу:
замість тяти ворога зашивав потятих
живих по живому життя заради.
Бачив дрібне і вмів змаліти до жмені.
Помічав, як останнє повітря випускали легені,
як із вдихом розправлялись і підносили душу до неба —
дивився, ніби в мутну краплину зі себе.
Іноді зауважував, як за мить до входження кулі в тіло
розплющувалося третє око і незворушно дивилося,
як від руху кулі повітря тремтіло.
Original poem by ORYSIA HRUDKA
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
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unbolt me 