#Virlana Tkacz

[folklorespring]

by Serhiy Zhadan, translated from Ukrainian by Virlana Tkacz and Bob Holman

[ripeteeth]

Of All Literature - Serhiy Zhadan

Of all literature

and all language

I’m most interested in words

used to address

the dead.

What if someone spoke a sentence

that could stir the sonic field of death?

Listen to me,

you — deprived of the sweet receptors of song.

Listen to me now,

hear my whisper,

distorted by the acoustics of nonexistence.

Listen to me,

you — marked by dialects, like scars throughout your lives,

you — whose throats were scratched since childhood by the burning

needles of the alphabet,

you — singers who could imitate bird calls.

I know — it is unfair

you cannot answer

the voices calling out to you from the mist today,

you cannot say anything to defend yourself,

you cannot protect the vacant land of night

between memory and expectation.

But language is important even after death,

like the deepening of a riverbed,

like the rise of heat for the first time in autumn

in a great home.

The only rule — grow roots,

break through.

The only change — reach out for a branch, grab hold of a voice.

There is nothing else.

No one will remember you for your silence.

No one but you can name the rivers nearby.

You who are only echoes,

you who are filled with silence,

speak, speak now,

speak as grass,

speak as frost,

speak as conductors of music.

(trans. Virlana Tkacz and Wanda Phipps)

[songsofprotestpeacerevolution]

Take Only What You Can Carry - Gogol Bordello feat. KAZKA

“Take Only What You Can Carry” encapsulates emotional message of uprooted people whose lives were destroyed by this fucked up war in Ukraine. The idea was to bring 3 very different Ukrainian artists together responding to the situation ASAP. Oleksandra Zaritska of Ukrainian synth pop group Kazka band brings cathartic justice to lyrics of Serhiy Zhadan, a punk rocker and Nobel Prize nominated writer and poet from hard-fighting city of Kharkiv. Translated into English by great Virlana Tkacz and me. We’ve never used someone else’s poetry before, but this is coming out of exceptional on all levels and I’m very proud of this collaboration. 

Extra special thank you to Razom, Walter Schreifels, and all participants on such a short notice. 

All Ukrainian made.

[kitchen-light]

I write poems about how I love this woman and I invent newer and newer words to avoid telling her.

Serhiy Zhadan, from his poem “Alcohol” (translated from the Ukrainian by Virlana Tkacz and Wanda Phipps), (found in “New European Poets”, edited by Wayne Miller and Kevin Prufer, Graywolf Press, 2008)

[kintukidu-blog]

SONG 212 by Oleh Lysheha, 1989

There are so many superstars, overgrown with weeds... Somewhere Tom Jones Is still singing about that green-green grass... On such a night under the moon among the trees Cinnamoned mushrooms Practice choreography... And I think I should return To the Milky Way, Churn up that warm dust... On such a night The grandest operas play for free To those at sea, to those awake Ella Fitzgerald Smears herself blue singing We shall not perish of this earth! -- No, no, no don't you cry -- Like a willow weeping over water... translated from the Ukrainian by Virlana Tkacz and Wanda Phipps

[bobholman-blog-blog]

DID YOU KNOW that before Capt. John Smith even went to Jamestown he spent years roaming East Europe and Turkey? Then he wrote the world's first autobiography about his adventures. That's the basis of the play I'm working (I play Smith), a small preview of which which will be performed tonight. My co-creators are Virlana Tkacz, director of Yara Arts Project and a theater visionary, and Julian Kytsasaty, world's greatest bandura player, he of the angelic voice. Also on the bill is my daughter Sophie, doing "Box," which she created and performs... Lots of other great works too! http://www.brama.com/yara/newsletter/index.htm

[ripeteeth]

The Dark Shattered Wicked Winter - Serhiy Zhadan

The dark shattered wicked winter

silence waits at the door like death.

What will remain of this winter

will be the words and how you said them.

All our troubles will be blamed on them.

They will be quoted and picked apart.

But I will just love them

and remember them.

I will remember the sky and how high it seemed.

I will remember cities suddenly startled by screams.

History becomes simple and clear

when I decide to fill it with laughter.

Remember the snow on your lashes,

remember the sun, searing, like a burn.

Children born after these snowstorms

will recognize this land by touch.

They will recognize its water by taste,

they will recognize the color of its wheat,

they will love its dry spells and storms,

they will even love its hospitals and prisons.

I will remember the chill under our nails,

the fire that dried out our throats,

your last moves in the middle of the night —

light, hesitant, final.

Children born under those stars

and named after the dead,

will exude wisdom in each breath,

while talking to enemies and thieves.

They will be stubborn and sure of themselves,

as if their future held no death,

as if their past held no rage.

They will remember everything that’s been forgotten.

They will make their way in night storms,

overcoming hurdles and obstacles.

They can handle it, try and teach them

to believe, to love and to remember.

Remember all that they carry with them:

the grass blackened by snow,

the sky over scorched heads,

the earth under tired feet.

(trans. Virlana Tkacz and Wanda Phipps)