of the
Canadian Institute of Ukrainian Studies
| Danylo Husar Struk Programme in Ukrainian Literature of the Canadian Institute of Ukrainian Studies |
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Lyuba Yakimchuk / Люба Якимчук Poems / Вірші |
Lyuba Yakimchuk, a Ukrainian poet, screenwriter and journalist, was born in Pervomaisk, Luhansk oblast, Ukraine. She is the author of several full-length poetry collections, including Like FASHION and Apricots of Donbas, and the film script for The Building of the Word.
Ms. Yakimchuk has received many literary awards, including the International Slavic Poetic Award, the Bohdan-Ihor Antonych Prize and the Smoloskyp Prize, three of Ukraine's most prestigious awards for young poets. She is the winner of the International Literary Contest "Coronation of the Word". Her poems have appeared in journals in Ukraine, USA, Sweden, Germany, Poland, Israel, Lithuania, and Belarus. Her poems have been translated into English, Swedish, German, French, Polish, Hebrew, Slovak, Lithuanian, Slovenian, Belarusian and Russian, and her essays into English and Swedish.
She performs in a musical and poetic duet with the Ukrainian double bass player Mark Tokar; their projects include Apricots of Donbas and Women, Smoke, and Dangerous Things. Her poetry has been performed by the singer Mariana Sadovska (Cologne) and improvised by vocalist Olesya Zdorovetska (Dublin).
Lyuba Yakimchuk also works as a cultural manager. She organized the "Semenko Year" project (2012) dedicated to the Ukrainian futurist writer Mykahil' Semenko, and was curator for the literary programs Cultural Forum "Donkult" (2015, Lviv) and Cultural Forum "GaliciaKult" (2016, Kharkiv).
She lives in Kyiv.
Lyuba Yakimchuk's Canadian tour is made possible, in part, through the cooperation of her American tour sponsors, the Kennan Institute and the Ukrainian Studies Program at the Harriman Institute of Columbia University
| HOW I KILLED I remain connected to my family over the phone all of my family connections are wiretapped they are curious: who do I love more, mom or dad? what makes my grandma cry out into the receiver? intrigued as ever by my sister's war-fueled drama with her boyfriend who used to be my boyfriend all of my phone connections are blood relations my blood is wiretapped they must know what percentage is Ukrainian Polish, Russian, and if there's any Gypsy they must know how much of it I gave, and to whom they must know whether that's my blood sugar dropping or the roof collapsing over me and whether it's possible to build borders out of membranes hundreds of graves have been dug between me and my mother and I don't know how to leap over them hundreds of mortar shells fly between me and my father and I can't see them as birds the metal doors of a basement, secured with a shovel separate me from my sister a screen of prayers hangs between me and my grandmother thin silky walls muting out the noise, and I hear nothing it's so simple, to stay connected over the phone to add minutes to my calling cards, restless nights, Xanax it must feel so intoxicating to listen to another's blood throbbing in your earphones as my blood clots into a bullet: bang! ! Translated from the Ukrainian by Oksana Maksymchuk and Max Rosochinsky. |
як я вбила усі мої родинні зв’язки тепер телефонні усі мої родинні зв’язки прослуховуються їм цікаво, кого я більше люблю, маму чи тата їм цікаво, на що хворіє моя бабуся, яка каже в слухавку: ой-ой-ой вони заінтриговані, що думає моя сестра про свого хлопця який раніше був моїм усі мої телефонні зв’язки кровні уся моя кров прослуховується їм треба знати, скільки відсотків української польської, російської, і навіть циганської їм треба знати, чиїм донором я стала їм треба знати, чи це впав гемоглобін, чи дах наді мною і чи можна з клітинних мембран побудувати кордон між мною і мамою вирито сотні могил і я не знаю, як їх перестрибнути між мною і моїм батьком літають сотні снарядів і я не вмію дивитися на них, як на птахів між мною і моєю сестрою металеві двері погребу що їх із-середини підпирає лопата між мною і моєю бабусею параван із її молитов — тонкі шовкові стіни, за якими не чути, зовсім не чути це дуже просто, підтримувати родинні телефонні зв’язки це дуже дешево, поповнювати рахунки безсонням та заспокійливим це так п’янить, слухати чужу кров, одягнувши навушники особливо, коли моя кров перетворюється на постріл: нах! ! 10 серпня 2014 |
| DECOMPOSITION nothing changes on the eastern front well, I've had it up to here at the time of death, metal gets hot and people get cold don't talk to me about Luhansk it's long since turned into –hansk Lu had been razed to the crimson pavement my friends are hostages and I can't reach them, I can't do netsk to pull them out of the basements from under the rubble yet here you are, writing poems ideally slick poems high-minded gilded poems beautiful as embroidery there's no poetry about war just decomposition only letters remain and they all make a single sound—rrr Pervomajsk has been split into pervo and majsk into particles in primeval flux war is over once again yet peace has not come and where's my deb, alts, evo? no poet will be born there again no human being I stare into the horizon it has narrowed into a triangle sunflowers dip their heads in the field black and dried out, like me I have gotten so very old no longer Lyuba just a—ba Translated from the Ukrainian by Oksana Maksymchuk and Max Rosochinsky. |
розкладання на східному фронті без змін скільки можна без змін? метал перед смертю стає гарячим а люди від нього холодними не кажіть мені про якийсь там Луганськ він давно лише ганськ лу зрівняли з асфальтом червоним мої друзі в заручниках — і до нецька мені не дістатися щоби витягти із підвалів, завалів та з-під валів а ви пишете вірші, красиві, як вишиванка ви пишете вірші ідеально гладенькі високу поезію золоту про війну не буває поезії про війну є лише розкладання лише літери і всі вони — ррр Первомайськ розбомбили на перво і майськ — безкінечно маятись наче вперше знову там скінчилась війна але мир так і не починався а де бальцево? де моє бальцево? там більше не родиться Сосюра уже більше ніхто з людей не родиться я дивлюся на колообрій він трикутний, трикутний і поле соняхів опустило голови вони стали чорні й сухі, як і я вже страшенно стара і я більше не Люба лише ба 22 серпня 2014. |
| HE SAYS EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE he says: they bombed your old school he says: food supplies are running out and there's no money left he says: the white lorries with humanitarian aid are our only hope he says: shells from the white lorries just flew overhead there's no school any more how can it be that there's no school? is it empty? is it full of holes, or has it been totally destroyed? what happened to my photo hanging on the roll of honour? what happened to my teacher sitting in the classroom? he says: photo? who gives a damn about your photo? he says: the school has melted—this winter is too hot he says: I haven't seen your teacher, please don't ask me to look for her he says: I saw your godmother; she's no longer with us run away you all drop everything and run away leave your house, your cellar with apricot jam jars and pink chrysanthemums on the terrace shoot your dogs, so they don't suffer abandon this land, just go he says: don't talk nonsense, we throw dirt on coffins daily he says: everything will be fine, salvation will come soon he says: the humanitarian aid is on the way Translated from the Ukrainian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky. |
він каже, що все буде добре він каже: розбомбили школу до якої ти ходила він каже: їжа закінчується, грошей немає він каже: гуманітарка з білих фур — єдине наше спасіння він каже: гуманітарка щойно полетіла снарядами школи немає як це, коли, школи немає? вона порожня, вона дірява чи її зовсім немає? що сталося з моїм фото, що висіло на дошці пошани? що сталося з моєю вчителькою, яка сиділа в класі? він каже: фотографія? кому потрібна твоя фотографія? він каже: школа розплавилася — ця зима надто гаряча він каже: вчительку я не бачив і не проси мене дивитися він каже: бачив твою хресну — її вже немає тікайте киньте все і тікайте залиште хату, погреб з абрикосовим варенням та рожеві хризантеми, що стоять на веранді собак пристрельте, щоби не мучилися кидайте цю землю, кидайте він каже: не верзи дурниць, ми щодня кидаємо землю — на труни він каже: усе буде добре, порятунок вже скоро він каже: гуманітарка вже йде 2 грудня 2014. |
| DIED OF OLD AGE granddad and granny passed away died on the same day at the same hour at the same moment— people said, died of old age their hen met its end and so did their goat and their dog (their cat was out) and people said, they died of old age their cabin fell apart their shed turned into ruins and the cellar got covered with dirt people said, everything collapsed due to old age their children came to bury the granddad and granny Olha was pregnant Serhiy was drunk and Sonya was only three they all perished, too and people said, they died of old age the cold wind plucked yellow leaves and buried beneath them the granddad, the granny, Olha, Serhiy and Sonya who died of old age Translated from the Ukrainian by Anatoly Kudryavitsky. |
ВІД СТАРОСТІ померли дід і баба здохла їхня курка розвалилась їхня хата прийшли їхні діти ховати діда з бабою холодний вітер обірвав жовте листя |
| CATERPILLAR her digits contract in the cold a wedding band slips off her ring finger it clinks and rolls on the pavement her hands tremble like leaves as a caterpillar draws near — its track crawls by her daughter's feet and stops two men approach order her to open her hands as if to clap they peer into her passport, pass it between themselves they press and squeeze her thumbs on her index finger they locate a burn instead of a callus from shooting a sniper rifle they call her by her nickname or maybe it's someone else's— Butch they strip her they probe her they lay her down as a queue nine of them (her favorite number) rape her wearing blue bathrobes (her favorite color) second-hand Nikes (her favorite shoes) nine of them on one disheveled— not bitch, but woman her little girl curls up into a fetus watches without tears she picks up her mom's wedding band holds it in her mouth like a dog with a bone and watches a caterpillar devour their green town Translated from the Ukrainian by Oksana Maksymchuk and Max Rosochinsky |
ГУСІНЬ її пальці змерзли і звузилися
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| EYEBROWS no-no, I won't put on a black dress black shoes and a black shawl I'll come to you all in white—if I have a chance to come And I'll be wearing nine white skirts One beneath the other I'll sit down in front of the mirror (it'll be hung up with a cloth) strike up a match it'll burn out and I will moisten it with my tongue and draw black eyebrows over my own, also black then I'll have two pairs of eyebrows mine and yours above them no-no, I won't put on a black dress I'll put on your black eyebrows on me. Translated from the Ukrainian by Svetlana Lavochkina. |
БРОВИ ні-ні, не одягну чорної сукні |
| CROW, WHEELS when the city was destroyed they started fighting over the cemetery it was right before Easter— wooden crosses over the freshly dug graves put out their paper blossoms— red, blue, yellow, neon green, orange, raspberry pink joyful relatives poured vodka for themselves and for the dead—straight onto their graves and the dead asked for more, and more, and more and the relatives kept pouring the celebration carried on but at some point a young man tripped over the stretchers at the grave of his mother-in-law, an old man gazed into the sky and lost it forever a fat man smashed his shot glass damaging the fence around his wife's grave glass fell at his feet like hail Easter came now a live crow sits on the grave of Anna Andriivna Ravenova instead of a headstone BTR-80 wheels rest at the cemetery nest of the Colisnyk family where lie buried Maria Viktorivna, Pylyp Vasylyovych, and Mykola Pylypovych what are they to me, those wheels and that crow? I can no longer remember Translated from the Ukrainian Oksana Maksymchuk and Max Rosochinsky. |
ВОРОНА, КОЛЕСА коли міста вже не було
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| I HAVE A CRISIS FOR YOU you lit up a cigarette but it wouldn't burn it was summer and girls would light up from any passerby but I didn't light up for you anymore —our love's gone missing, —I explain to a friend it vanished in one of the wars we waged in our kitchen —replace the word war with crisis, —he says because crisis is something everyone has from time to time you remember the second world crisis? respectively, the first one as well the civil crisis—to each his own I forgot about the cold crisis it seems there were two of them also the liberating crisis should be mentioned it sounds so good— the liberating crisis of 1648–1657 write it down in textbooks a crisis that liberates releases forever my great-grandfather died in the second world crisis possibly at the hand of my other great-grandfather or his machine gun or his battle tank but it is unclear how they fought this crisis with each other or whether it was the crisis itself that killed them, like a plague for nobody is to blame for a crisis it is inexorable like death and when our own domestic war turns into a crisis does it get better? does it hurt less? do birds return to us from the south or maybe, we go to meet them? why is our language like that— we lack words to describe our feelings only crisis and love are left as antonyms but if love is so complicated with these blazes and smolderings like blood and pain (and blood is not at all like one's periods but some new feeling of mine) (and pain is yours) if love is made up of two different feelings then soon love will also be called crisis I have a crisis for you, darling let's get married we've got a crisis we'd better split up Translated from the Ukrainian by Svetlana Lavochkina. |
У МЕНЕ ДО ТЕБЕ КРИЗА ти запалював сигарету —наша любов зникла без вісті,—пояснюю другу пам’ятаєш, була друга світова криза? мій прадід загинув від другої світової кризи і коли наша з тобою хатня війна але якщо любов буде такою складною у мене до тебе криза, люба у нас криза |
| FALSE FRIENDS AND BELOVED even a translator's false friends become just friends one day: you say "kochana"—"my beloved"— and a blast inside me forms the cap of a mushroom I ask, are you drunk? do you know what this word means in Ukrainian? because there is the word "kochanie"—"cutie" that you said to me yesterday as if addressing a little girl you reply that I am sweet that I'm just sweet, and not your beloved you articulate not in Ukrainian but in Polish that I'm your "kochana"—that is a friend, to say more exactly, a girl-friend you know, I say, in Belarusian they also have problems with love in Belarusian it's not like ours at all their "liubov" is calm and tasty, like love for food like love for a country when it is not at war how on earth can they live without love as we have it? you say: love is like a gust of wind you'll never guess what will happen to it tomorrow for example, in French, "baiser"— is not "to kiss" anymore now it means "to make love" what if you spoke French not Polish and said the word "baiser" that you had been taught incorrectly at school and I agreed because, at school, I had also been taught incorrectly what would happen? for the body knows language better than the mind does the body will not let you down my beloved! this relationship is so uncertain all this love changes so much from language to language today kiss—tomorrow lovemaking today romantic love—tomorrow—love for a country beloved, je t'embrasse— I kiss I only kiss you on your cheek false lover of a translator that is of a bad translatress Translated from the Ukrainian by Svetlana Lavochkina. |
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| SUCH PEOPLE ARE CALLED NAKED For Henri Michaux you took off your t-shirt I pulled off my dress you unbuckled your belt I unhooked my brassiere you let down your pants and kicked off your socks I freed myself out of my panties, so sassy that it's better to call them sassies and now we lie in bed two strips like two white loaves of bread facing each other you touch my cheek with your hand you lower your hand on my neck you drive your fingers along my clavicle: —how nicely everything is put together here! – you utter but suddenly from behind your shoulder your mom peeks and says, —Andryusha, did you wash your hands? you turn to face her, show your hands she offers you fruit compote and goes to the kitchen you turn back to me put your hand back where you stopped from the clavicle it slides down to my breasts softly as sea sand and then I feel my dad's breath on my nape: —think with your head, baby he whispers loudly I turn away from you and see his unshaved face quite close and reply that I always think with my head! I turn to you and already my hand slides along your chest and its thin hair bends under it and then behind your back the bed creaks: —Andryusha, have some fruit compote you turn away from me kiss her sonorously and say: mom, I want to be alone for a bit! and she replies, offended: it doesn't look like you're alone! and she goes somewhere again and now you are with me again and your hand on my stomach glides slowly down so it gets so close and so tender so it gets so and then I hear my grandmother's groaning she says loudly into my back: —you're not a virgin anymore— see how your expression changed! and I take your hand away from my belly turn halfway to my granny with the same hand of yours I straighten her purple kerchief and say loudly: —I'm still untouched, gran, and will remain untouched forever! I turn back to you and here, over your shoulder an old lady in a yellow kerchief peeps this time, your granny: —what kind of female name ends with a consonant, as if it were a man's?—she asks the answer is my name but I'm silent and I take your hands away from my hips snow falls between us and like two toy soldiers we lie like this till morning and in the morning a cleaning lady comes throws away the snow mounds between us and I look into your green eyes for a long, long time and you look at my brown nipples very long then I say: —let's get undressed and I take off, one by one: my dad my granny my mom my sister and you take off, one by one: your mom your brother my granny your childhood friend your pick-up experts and we now wear nothing at all such people are called naked Translated from the Ukrainian by Svetlana Lavochkina. |
ПРО ТАКИХ КАЖУТЬ: ГОЛІ ти зняв футболку ти торкаєшся рукою моєї щоки а вранці приходить прибиральниця |