By Igor Bozhko

Translated from the Ukrainian and Russian by Philip Nikolayev

***

in the moonlight roofs are floating
a barcarolle sounds
floating flowers floating coffins
floating drifting cows

wavering the mirrored crescent
a dog and a cat
paddle but no one is rescued
by the moonlit path

rising waters overwhelm
overflow all things
and as dark as life itself
a barcarolle rings

July 17, 2023

Butterfly

war rages in the fields
kills everything that breathes
it tears off living limbs
stares with a beastly gaze
ruins everything in its way
it crucifies the yellow field
it pierces skin and ribs
it devours all
it devours all

but one soul persists alive
vital indestructible
unsubdued by death it thrives
a marvelous black angel
among the raging metal
it refuses to settle
but instead of dying
keeps flying and flying

* * *

the air is motionless
not one leaf stirs
on the old linden tree

recently
an insane wind shook the houses and the sea
chopping off anything unwanted
slamming doors

now it is quiet
with a gentle ringing in the ears
sparrows mutter
an occasional chirp
and then again there’s no sound
or explosion
such that windows shatter
and hearts shudder

July 7, 2023

* * *

russian planes dropped a barrage
of bombs on the village
they killed old folks and children
puppies kittens and chickens

after another violent clap
the fish are floating belly u
white bellies all over the pond
likewise killed dead by a bomb

the maidan exists no more
nor the council the church the store
where the candies bread and wine
flew out the window to the sky

that’s why the angels in the sky
are eating candies and drinking wine
as they weep
and weep
and weep
for the innocently slain

no candy for them

* * *

when a burst of bloody bullets rocks the town
the cuckoos inside their clocks just hunker down
little dogs run to basements flee from peril
while a bottle stands unopened on the table

all the bullets avoid it with precision
they pursue other targets with ambition
now that everything is shattered in the cottag
shaggy shadows crawl the walls and on the low porch

but the bullets skirt the bottle gingerly
for the master bade it wait until victory
for he ordered it to stand firm and endure
homebrew sentry until the end of war

By Dasha Suzdalova

Translated from the Ukrainian and Russian by Philip Nikolayev

***

[February] 23

Snow hasn’t yet covered
the train window
its glass still uncrossed
by tape
everything’s
suddenly grown so old
the eye of time is slimy swollen
the living still sleep the sleep of the living
and of the land
— whether or not dawn is already breaking —
the hard mouth not yet unstitched
the living dream the dreams of the living
and we aren’t yet knocking in morse code
on our childhood’s arid cities calling
new mutes

* * *

If only
anyone at all heard, saw
how they jangle, how they glitter on you,
these bones:
the world in which you dare
dance like this is a
success

* * *

Object on Deoccupied Territory

There was everything there:
taste, color, scent, texture
the laws of physics acted upon it as expected
gravity held it unfailingly to the earth
atmospheric pressure squeezed it (without excess)
a passing cloud
calmly cast its shadow across it
yes, it had sufficient characteristics
(at least for a newspaper piece)
except that there was no name
due to insufficient time (or perhaps desire)
it was simply called:
that which defies naming

* * *

Out of the corner of the eye
to record the crime scene, where the freshly
dismembered aspires to reunification;
but aspiration is just another slaughtered word,
only the outlines of material evidence quaver, as if in an act of
creation,
of breath lifted from constriction —
and if even they cannot endure,
how could we

* * *

Just think how little of her
is still left for the soul to hold on to
and already she’s gazing at
cosmic catastrophe
as those stretch past
stellar innards spitting out
a long ending saluting her
not in the least surprised
by her tenacity

By Arkady Shtypel

Translated from the Ukrainian and Russian by Philip Nikolayev

***

the sky burns
the war churns
and there are no words
except perhaps
death to the enemy
death to the enemy
death to the enemy

in a distant plane someone
depresses a button

floors fall
the building ignites
the wounded scream
the dead lie in pools of blood
a child resembles a broken doll
survivors of the fire huddle together
ambulances wail
firefighters and rescuers come running

a second strike

another soldier is dead
there’s a funeral in the village
a closed coffin on two stools
a woman wails tearfully
a priest recites a prayer
people kneel
in the wind

a yellow–and–blue flag

tears and rage
tears and rage
tears and rage

* * *

the marvelous form
of living beings

breath
blood circulation
digestion and excretion
active muscles
all those glands
enzyme chemistry
hormones
networks of nerves
with countless sensory endings

the miracle of sight

the brain!
especially our human brain
understanding
imagination
speech

all our words
that we use daily
polished by millions of dead lips
like the sea pebbles
that Demosthenes held in his mouth
to overcome speech impediments

. . . an explosion resounds

* * *

long burrows craters deep depressions
terrain of war
ordnance preserve us from extinction
stand firm and roar

* * *

here is the dnieper there the donets
the black sea swells
where running briskly on its course
a shiplet sails

the wind laments among fresh graves
at the poor cemetery
a fearless flock of sparrows chirps
its plain philosophy

crush of affairs backdrop of flares
the era groans and sizzles
but that which gives our daily bread
also supplies our missiles

time passes for sure
the grasses endure

* * *

can’t think of verses
how many of us
have gone to the skies
can’t think of verses
while clenching teeth
don’t think of verses
god forbid worse
so won’t think of verses
can’t think of verses
in blood of squished cherries
the war the war rages
……………….………
life–giving wheat
wrapped in blue light
far in the valley
a song rings daily
“ah there will be floods again
and laughs
and wine”

* * *

war’s fiery hands
a catchy metaphor
but inappropriate
as it aestheticizes
and adorns war
i.e. endless terror
dirt
stench
gutted mutilated bodies
entrails spilling out
so there’s no need for metaphors
except perhaps this:
war’s most fiery hands
will close
around the enemy’s throats