#ukrainian poetry

[folklorespring]

Here are two poems by Maksym Kryvtsov, a Ukrainian poet, who was killed defending Ukraine back in January. One of the poems is dedicated to a ginger cat that followed him around faithfully and later died with him. Please read his words, don't let them die too.

[dontforgetukraine]

"When someone asks me what war is, I will answer them without hesitation: names. Oh, black sea of ​​sunflowers, receive me. I’m tired of waiting..."

—Maksym Kryvtsov, poet and fallen Ukrainian soldier

[theophan-o]

A beautiful Ukrainian Cossack Hero by Ukrainian contemporary artist and illustrator, Kateryna Shtanko (Катерина Штанко)

This illustration has been published in an anthology of poems by Taras Shevchenko (Тарас Шевченко): Т. Шевченко, У нашім раї на землі..., Київ 2018.

It is a fan&didactic account, existing only for the Cossack Heroes glory and promoting Ukrainian heritage worldwide. Copyright belongs to the Artist/Museum.

[amelancholic]

Vasyl Symonenko is basically is the best poet in the whole world

[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)

[ohsalome]

Vasyl Symonenko

Translated by Kyrylo Snizhko

[gwenllianwales]

Мої знайомі стали вулицями, Імена на пам'ять залишені.

Мої знайомі стали петиціями, Підписи поставлено стишено.

Мої знайомі стали стрічками, Синьо-жовті стяги опущені.

Мої знайомі стали книгами, В кінці читачі засмучені.

Мої знайомі стали зорями, Далекими й трохи млявими.

Мої знайомі стали спогадом, Живими, але вже примарами.

@ukrfanficshn

[inthenameof-thoughts]

прощання

стань моїм привидом, коли я ��іду хай я буду жива через призму твою торкайся стопами моїх сліз на траві слухай, як щебочуть мої голоси

друже мій рідний, вже майже весна не забудь мої очі зі снігу і скла читай мої книги зі стертих полиць слухай платівки, що збирали колись

мені так самотньо у хмарах важких згадую квіти, шепіт і сміх я не лечу без твого крила без тебе для мене едему нема

мої коси тепер це лиш синя імла мій подих це іній на сонних гілках мої руки це мох на корі і камнях моє серце це дощ на твоїх рукавах

я залишу тебе для сумних журавлів здається, бог лиш нам зорі створив давати, втрачати - це все те саме скоро ти знайдеш, зустрінеш мене

[thegirlwhohid]

One of the poems of Victoria Amelina, written after the start of the full-scale invasion.

[folklorespring]

by Victoria Amelina, translated from Ukrainian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky

[dontforgetukraine]

I just imagined it was you. The square, the bridge remains between us The fallen leaves around us flew Through yards, their dance decaying lingers. Between us, rain will be the tool To rinse off weariness we cling on Without the mercy washing to The ground of the road gleaming. I'm walking alongside the wind. The sharpest flint my hand encloses Above the woods, night over it, The path is turning into verses Above the river fog is bitter. The walnut bawls its eyes in autumn And listens: here comes the winter She, just like me, to see you wanted —Mykola Leonovych, from the poetry collection "Povilna Liudyna (Slow human)" Translated by Anastasia Klimash

According to Anastasia Klimash, "Mykola Leonovych is a Ukrainian poet, designer and illustrator. He joined the Ukrainian Armed Forces in the beginning of 2023. He went missing in action near Avdiivka."

Part of the proceeds from the sale of the book will go towards the Armed Forces of Ukraine. You can purchase it here. (There is no English translation of the book)

[orchard-bliss]

Mariana Savka, “Somewhere On The Shore Of Days”; tr. from the Ukrainian by Amelia Glaser and Yuliya Ilchuk

[jameslmartello]

[sundoesnotexist444]

Я чую як церковні дзвони мене звуть, але я нікого не бачу

Моє тіло між шипами

Та воно горить, але я не нічого не чую

Мабудь це тільки кошмар, але чому я очі не можу відкрити? Мам…чому ти там стоїш і на нього дивишся? Це ти?… чи не так…?

[soleeryx]

але я сів не в той літак він був з одним крилом другим крилом мав стати я я ним не став і ось вже стільки днів ми однокриле летимо і кожна мить загрожує падінням добре терпляча дорога моя що смерті не боюсь я і що ти про смерть не думаєш.

[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)