February

 

Поети перетворюються на ліхтарників
у місті, пересвіченому електрикою,
схожі на ветеранів великої війни,
що вихаркують серед ночі
подих чергового літнього наступу.

(Serhiy Zhadan, extract from a tweeted poem of 3/2/22)

Poety peretvoryuyutʹsya na likhtarnykiv 

u misti, peresvichenomu elektrykoyu, 

skhozhi na veteraniv velykoyi viyny, 

shcho vykharkuyutʹ sered nochi 

podykh cherhovoho litnʹoho nastupu.

Google Translate: 

Poets turn into lanterns

in a city lit by electricity,

look like veterans of the Great War,

sputtering in the middle of the night

breath of another summer offensive.

Two more poems by Serhiy Zhadan, translated by Valzhyna Mort:

https://pionline.wordpress.com/2016/12/17/two-poems-by-serhiy-zhadan-translated-by-valzhyna-mort/

Extract:

Now we remember: janitors and the night-sellers of bread,
gray, like wrapping paper,
burglars,
taxi drivers with klaxons instead of hearts,
children who grew up
among the old furniture
(furniture smelled of poplar trees and sea).

Our city of workers and ugly middle-men,
tear-jerking market beggars
they cleared
the autumn fog
with their shouts.

The tree trunks are obliterated by hail lashing on the glass.

Outside there's a crust of hail and a bench lies on its front, 

and a tall cypress buffets sideways, why are you looking? 

For was it not so that evergreens

should slow bejewel mountain streams?

I am happy now with the curse of a corpse

and You you strip away the berries from huts

"The more shall Clan-Alpine exult"

The gravel the locks swing blue, there's alteration in stupidity.

A light blinks on and off. 

February 

                              Upon the banks of the eternal river.

                                                            – Lina Kostenko

The lengthy winter’s final month we will

Survive. And after all, we have our share

Of guilt as well. A knife emerges from

The darkness like the moon. And a guitar

Twangs on about the copses and the corpses.

The voices on the tape-cassettes are ours.

Those less at fault are more so. And conversely,

The guiltier are less. The years slither

Like worms out of your hand. And all the same,

For everything there comes a punishment.

Unhappy land of captive dreams,

Abominable words, and severed heads,

And acid-scalded skin!

They’ve ripped out your nightingale’s tongue,

And whistles, curses, drunken shouts are all

You hear from underneath the princely purple.

My princess, consort of the frogs and fishes!

Your every son’s a blackguard or a slave!

Whom can you marry and whom can you love?

Upon the banks of the eternal river –

Bookkeepers, majors, and their wives…

With children studying abroad.

And what can grow from scattered ears of wheat?

It’s been our fate to see the field denuded.

But someone, all the same, will see the harvest

And the striding foeman’s scythe pass through it.

And they will flail it on the threshing-floor.

And upon the embroidered cloth, the bread

Will lie before us like a severed head. 

Natalka Bilotserkivets, translation by Andrew Sorokowsky

[Poem source: https://peacockjournal.com/natalka-bilotserkivets-six-poems-translated-andrew-sorokowski/ .]