For anyone interested in reading more of her poetry translated into English, you'll find four here. Three are translated from the Russian by Amelia Glaser and Yuliya Ilchuk, and the fourth is translated from the Russian by Katherine E. Young. https://www.openhorizons.org/february-is-sobbing-and-the-candle-drips-on-the-table-iya-kiva-ukrainian-poet.html I especially like this one, from 2014: This coffin’s for you, little boy, don’t be afraid, lie down,
A bullet called life clutched tight in your fist,
We didn’t believe in death, look – the crosses are tinfoil.
Do you hear – all the bell towers tore out their tongues?
We won’t forget you, believe it, believe it, be …
Belief bleeds down the seam inside your sleeve,
Chants, prayers, psalms well up in a lump in your throat
In the middle of this damned winter all dressed in khaki,
And February, getting the ink, is sobbing.
And the candle drips on the table, burning and burning…
What I love about poetry, especially the exquisitely raw poetry shared here by Dr. Snyder and by you, Rose, is that it takes the images that are living in my heart, and translates them into visible words. Thank you to all the poets and artists, the journalists and survivors, that help us bear witness to the truth.
"And translates them into visible words." Yes! That is precisely why I so love this poetry. These words: "Do you hear – all the bell towers tore out their tongues?" It is the bells that ring for all of life's stages: for birth, for baptism, for weddings, for death. The bells are central to Eastern Orthodoxy. I know this from listening to a lot of Russian music, especially the music of Sergei Rachmaninoff: the final movement of his Symphony #2 in E minor, op. 27, as well as "The Bells" (Колокола), op.35. Both are secular works, but "The Bells" uses the familiar cantus "Dies irae" from the Latin mass for the dead. In this poem it is the ringing of the bells for death to which the poet alludes. The tearing out of tongues silences the once living; it severs the physical ties between the living and the dead.
When I went back to edit it (twice) I was thinking about that, and tried to affix the first word of the poem to the line to which it belonged. I was successful, or so I thought; the moment I clicked on "post," "this" jumped back to the previous line. After trying once again, I gave up and decided to leave a note.
Wait a second. I just now noticed that hitting ENTER does not cause a reply to post, as it does in other online media comment sections. So let me try this again. I am grateful to you for this accidental insight.
this coffin’s for you, little boy, don’t be afraid, lie down,
A bullet called life clutched tight in your fist,
We didn’t believe in death, look – the crosses are tinfoil.
Do you hear – all the bell towers tore out their tongues?
We won’t forget you, believe it, believe it, be …
Belief bleeds down the seam inside your sleeve,
Chants, prayers, psalms well up in a lump in your throat
In the middle of this damned winter all dressed in khaki,
And February, getting the ink, is sobbing.
And the candle drips on the table, burning and burning…
Thank you for this poem. I receive Literary Hub and there have been some fabulous conversations with Ukrainian writers/poets over these past weeks turned months. Also - another super essay in the online New Yorker April 28 - a snapshot of Ukrainian and Russian history and relationships over time. Just finished AGAIN The Road to Unfreedom, and I must say, reading it now after the 4 years of plague realize just how fraught everything was and not really feeling able to translate it at all into meaning. I told friends that even if they have not read the entire book they should at least read Chapter 6. Appreciate all you are doing to keep informing and teaching people about the times we are in. Lord knows, we all need some assistance as the forces of chaos continue to send tsunamis crashing toward shore daily.
On Swedish Radio today was the story of Filip Orlik who wrote, together with his wife Hannah, the first Ukrainian constitution in 1710, with the democratic feature of sharing of power. He was allied to the Swedish king Karl XII in the battle of Poltava, which ended in total victory for Russia. Orlik and his family were invited to join Karl XII back to Sweden. Strange to hear about a friend of Karl XII as a writer of a democratic constitution, but they were of course basically brother in arms against a common enemy. In Sweden we learn that the brutal autocracy of Karl XII was replaced by the new constitution of "Time of Liberty"; basically forcing the king to share his power with the aristocracy.
The original document of this first constitution of Ukraine has now been on display in Kiev. The people from the Swedish museum in charge of the document reported that they had never experienced such a vibrant importance of any other thing in their custody.
Beautiful and very moving. The poem brought to my mind the devastation in the faces of the women and children evacuated from the Azovstal steel plant in recent days. Slava Ukraini!
For anyone interested in reading more of her poetry translated into English, you'll find four here. Three are translated from the Russian by Amelia Glaser and Yuliya Ilchuk, and the fourth is translated from the Russian by Katherine E. Young. https://www.openhorizons.org/february-is-sobbing-and-the-candle-drips-on-the-table-iya-kiva-ukrainian-poet.html I especially like this one, from 2014: This coffin’s for you, little boy, don’t be afraid, lie down,
A bullet called life clutched tight in your fist,
We didn’t believe in death, look – the crosses are tinfoil.
Do you hear – all the bell towers tore out their tongues?
We won’t forget you, believe it, believe it, be …
Belief bleeds down the seam inside your sleeve,
Chants, prayers, psalms well up in a lump in your throat
In the middle of this damned winter all dressed in khaki,
And February, getting the ink, is sobbing.
And the candle drips on the table, burning and burning…
What I love about poetry, especially the exquisitely raw poetry shared here by Dr. Snyder and by you, Rose, is that it takes the images that are living in my heart, and translates them into visible words. Thank you to all the poets and artists, the journalists and survivors, that help us bear witness to the truth.
"And translates them into visible words." Yes! That is precisely why I so love this poetry. These words: "Do you hear – all the bell towers tore out their tongues?" It is the bells that ring for all of life's stages: for birth, for baptism, for weddings, for death. The bells are central to Eastern Orthodoxy. I know this from listening to a lot of Russian music, especially the music of Sergei Rachmaninoff: the final movement of his Symphony #2 in E minor, op. 27, as well as "The Bells" (Колокола), op.35. Both are secular works, but "The Bells" uses the familiar cantus "Dies irae" from the Latin mass for the dead. In this poem it is the ringing of the bells for death to which the poet alludes. The tearing out of tongues silences the once living; it severs the physical ties between the living and the dead.
I couldn't get the first word to go with the first line.
Perhaps you didn’t notice the first line is at the end of the previous paragraph
When I went back to edit it (twice) I was thinking about that, and tried to affix the first word of the poem to the line to which it belonged. I was successful, or so I thought; the moment I clicked on "post," "this" jumped back to the previous line. After trying once again, I gave up and decided to leave a note.
Wait a second. I just now noticed that hitting ENTER does not cause a reply to post, as it does in other online media comment sections. So let me try this again. I am grateful to you for this accidental insight.
this coffin’s for you, little boy, don’t be afraid, lie down,
A bullet called life clutched tight in your fist,
We didn’t believe in death, look – the crosses are tinfoil.
Do you hear – all the bell towers tore out their tongues?
We won’t forget you, believe it, believe it, be …
Belief bleeds down the seam inside your sleeve,
Chants, prayers, psalms well up in a lump in your throat
In the middle of this damned winter all dressed in khaki,
And February, getting the ink, is sobbing.
And the candle drips on the table, burning and burning…
thank you and gratitude to the poet and translator
Thank you for this poem. I receive Literary Hub and there have been some fabulous conversations with Ukrainian writers/poets over these past weeks turned months. Also - another super essay in the online New Yorker April 28 - a snapshot of Ukrainian and Russian history and relationships over time. Just finished AGAIN The Road to Unfreedom, and I must say, reading it now after the 4 years of plague realize just how fraught everything was and not really feeling able to translate it at all into meaning. I told friends that even if they have not read the entire book they should at least read Chapter 6. Appreciate all you are doing to keep informing and teaching people about the times we are in. Lord knows, we all need some assistance as the forces of chaos continue to send tsunamis crashing toward shore daily.
You say it for me too Linda. Just reading The Road to Unfreedom.
Brilliant...thanks Dr. Snyder...you bring life into dust and tears.....Linda
Thanks, Tim.
Вельми дякую! Слава Україні, Героям Слава! 🇺🇦
On Swedish Radio today was the story of Filip Orlik who wrote, together with his wife Hannah, the first Ukrainian constitution in 1710, with the democratic feature of sharing of power. He was allied to the Swedish king Karl XII in the battle of Poltava, which ended in total victory for Russia. Orlik and his family were invited to join Karl XII back to Sweden. Strange to hear about a friend of Karl XII as a writer of a democratic constitution, but they were of course basically brother in arms against a common enemy. In Sweden we learn that the brutal autocracy of Karl XII was replaced by the new constitution of "Time of Liberty"; basically forcing the king to share his power with the aristocracy.
The original document of this first constitution of Ukraine has now been on display in Kiev. The people from the Swedish museum in charge of the document reported that they had never experienced such a vibrant importance of any other thing in their custody.
what have you got there, brothers, -- ask our dead --
the history of a tribe with a dirty rag in its mouth
rotting chests filled with grandparents' and great-grandparents' lives
which we've carried for centuries as if shouldering the Carpathians
Was ever there a war more needless or at greater cost
Beautiful and very moving. The poem brought to my mind the devastation in the faces of the women and children evacuated from the Azovstal steel plant in recent days. Slava Ukraini!