#Ukraine poetry

[iamjustasadsongwithnothingtosay]

Іван Малкович - Свічечка букви "Ї"

Хай це можливо і не найсуттєвіше

але ти дитино

покликана захищати своїми долоньками

крихітну свічечку букви "ї"

а також

витягнувшись на пальчиках

оберігати місячний серпик

букви "є"

що зрізаний з неба

разом із ниточкою

бо кажуть дитино

що мова наша — солов'їна

гарно кажуть

але затям собі

що колись

можуть настати і такі часи

коли нашої мови

не буде пам'ятати

навіть найменший

соловейко

тому не можна покладатися

тільки на солов'їв

дитино.

[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.

[thelittleukrainianwell-armedgirl]

"On 7th of January Ukrainian poet Maksym Kryvtsov and his ginger cat were killed by rssian army on the frontline. He was 33 years old. He was writing poems about the war and his loyal cat friend, while protecting his homeland. He could create so much if russia would not start this unjust horror.

Every time something inside me dies when I see news like this. Every Ukrainian from the beginning of their time in school learns about Executed Renaissance - when on the beginning of 20th century a lot of Ukrainian artists, writers, poets were chased and executed by Soviet Union for creating works in Ukrainian and expressing their national identity. Now it’s happening again, same evil, but under different flag. Besides occupation of our land russia also often talks about how Ukraine is fake country with fake language, they burn our books on occupied territories, mock us, our POWs for the fact we’re ukrainian. They were mocking us even before the invasion, I grew up with watching it on social medias myself. And now a lot of authors can’t create because of the war, russia kills them on frontlines, in their homes, russia purposefully targets objects of civilian infrastructure to leave us without heat and electricity. It pisses me off every time when I see russian “culture” being praised by the foreigners, knowing that it’s made on blood of other nations. Either 100 years ago or now. Because while russian authors can live and create, we have fight for our survival.

Before being killed by russia Maksym published his last poem, where he told about how his body will grow as violets after his death. Every time it’s hard to draw something about the war, I feel literally empty afterwards but I just felt it would be right thing to do. It’s awful that our artists have to go through all of this, so damn unfair, and I keep telling myself that justice is waiting for them but I can’t even imagine what has to happen, everything feels not enough.

Please support Ukrainian authors, until it’s too late."

(c) @ fate_221

[mishacollins]

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It is Independence Day in Ukraine, and this recitation of a beloved poem about Ukraine was broadcast on National TV in Ukraine today. 

Happy birthday, Ukraine. 

[justacynicalromantic]

[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

[unhonestlymirror]

Portrait of Marusya Churai (by Fedir Panasovych Samusiv) - the legendary Ukrainian poetess and singer, the author of many famous songs of Bohdan Khmelnytśkyi times.

According to legend, Marusya Churai was born in 1625 (according to other versions, in 1628 or 1629) in the family of the kozak centurion Hordiy, one of the leaders of the anti-Polish uprising. After the death of her father, who was one of the foremen during the Ostryanin Uprising and was burned at the stake in Warsaw as a rebel in 1638, she remained to live with her mother in Poltava. Their house stood on the banks of the Vorskla, near the Khrestovozdvyzheńśkyi Monastery, which has survived to this day.

In her youth, the girl had many suitors, among whom was the young kozak Ivan Iskra, but she gave her heart to Hrytś Bobrenko (according to other versions, Hrytś Ostapenko), the son of a cornel of the Poltava regiment, to whom she later secretly became engaged. With the outbreak of Khmelnytśkyi in 1648, Hrytś went to war, promising to return. The girl waited for him for 4 years. However, when Hrytś returned to Poltava, he no longer paid attention to Marusya because he fell in love with another, Hannusya from a wealthy Poltava family. The betrayed girl could not bear the loss and decided to poison herself with a potion that she secretly took from a local old witch, but which Hrytś accidentally drank himself.

In the summer of 1652, the Poltava court sentenced Marusya to death for murdering Hrytś, but she was amnestied with the wagon of Bohdan Khmelnytśkyi, which was brought by Ivan Iskra. The text of the station wagon: "In the mind, no one loses whom he truly loves. Therefore, it is not necessary to punish without reason, and therefore I order: to count the head of Poltava governor Hordiy Churai, cut off by our enemies, for the sake of the wonderful songs that she (Marusya) composed. In the future, death sentences will not be carried out without my order. Marusya Churai should be released from custody." To do penance, the girl went to Kyiv for penance, but after returning to Poltava in 1653, she died at the age of 28, unable to bear the death of her beloved (according to other sources, in 1652 in Poltava from tuberculosis shortly after the amnesty, or she became a nun in one of the Ukrainian monasteries).

[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.

[redjaybathood]

Jason Todd - "Wings" by Lina Kostenko

"those who have wings don't need no soil"

Stephanie Brown - "As a child..." by Lesya Ukrainka

As not to cry, I laughed

Подобається?/Did you like it?

Шановне панство/My honorable community,

Я роблю міні-збір на драбину для Нікопольської пожежної машини. Моя ціль - це 5000 грн. Ці гроші 21 лютого будуть перераховані на загальну банку, про яку ви можете прочитати тут /I am doing a mini-fundraiser for Nikopol firefighting car's automatic ladder. Adding a bit of context for my international friends, Nikopol is constantly under attack and it also gets some International aid, but being a relatively small city, it's far away from enough. Ensuring the first responders have appropriate transportation and equipment means saving the lives of people whose homes got shelled. These funds (my goal is only 5000 UAH which is roughly 130 USD) will be transferred to the main fundraiser which you can read about here.

Я збираю в твітері, й хочу перевірити, чи мої підписники з тумблру можуть зібрати більше/I am already fundraising on twitter and just want to check whether my twitter or Tumblr followers will be more active in donating

Ось посилання на банку/here's a link for direct P2P card payments (but only in UAH tho)

https://send.monobank.ua/jar/4xMCTRPMrm

Кидайте скріншот донату й замовляйте персонажа DC comics і я підберу для них вірш з української поезії. / Send me a donation screenshot and order a character from DC Comics, for whom I will find a Ukrainian poem

[ivyithink]

translation of a line from a short Ukrainian poem that stuck with me, had to illustrate

The author, Victoria Amelina, was severely wounded on the 27th of June 2023 during the russian attack on Kramatorsk. She died due to her injuries on the 1st of July at the age of 37.

full poem:

Тривога

Повітряна тривога по всій країні

Так наче щоразу ведуть на розстріл

Усіх

А цілять лише в одного

Переважно в того, хто скраю

Сьогодні не ти, відбій

[folklorespring]

by Victoria Amelina, translated from Ukrainian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky

[huggingtentacles]

Air-raid sirens across the country

It feels like everyone is brought out

For execution

But only one person gets shot

Usually the one at the edge

Not you today; all clear

By Victoria Amelina, translation by me, I'm elaborating on it under the cut:

I made a rough translation from Ukrainian, tried my best to make it work. Though the word order itself carries some meaning that's hard to communicate in English so I'll just explain the differences and hope you'll get the vibes.

The second and third line directly translates like this:

As if every time led to an execution

Everyone

The word order in English doesn't work like that but putting "everyone" in the end works for emphasis on Ukraninan. Everyone is brought out to get shot.

"Usually the one at the edge" doesn't convey the whole thing. There is a double meaning here. Being "At the edge" or "скраю" in Ukraninan is also synonymous with not being involved or plainly speaking, innocent.

And in the final line the rough translation would be "Today not you; all clear" putting "today" in the beginning puts emphasis on the word. In English it sounds almost cheerful to me, like yeah, congrats, it's not you today! But in Ukraninan it says something more like "It's not you today."

I just felt like conveying these differences is important.

I would also like to mention that Victoria Amelina was a really good poet, I like a lot of her works. Unfortunately there won't be more, she was killed in a Russian air strike last year.

[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)

[stanford-photography]

Contra Spem Spero (Against all Hope I Hope) By Jeff Stanford, 2023

Buy prints at: https://jeff-stanford.pixels.com/

[dontforgetukraine]

I'd return to Earth a grasshopper, As I used to hop on my loyal horse. Like a tiny bead in the hay is lost, I will be the one with the greenery, Then, the final thunder of stomping hooves Will catch up with me, and I cease to be.

—Artem Dovhopolyi, fallen Ukrainian defender of the 58th Mechanized Brigade

Source: nedopysani

[ohsalome]

Vasyl Symonenko

Translated by Kyrylo Snizhko