Dawn
here is the dawn โ tenderness of an early morning โ
soft like pitted dates, and the soul recollects reluctantly: the war.
the war is waiting; every morning the transparent Cerberus
greets us,
rubs its three muzzles against our legs. Or throat.
did you sleep okay?
scratch me between the ears, Iโm not going to
bite you to death, one of the heads says.
I am, barks playfully the second one.
the third head keeps menacing silence,
watching you,
and in the yard, the rose bushes have blossomed;
the big, chubby buds bloom,
showing off silky wounds,
and bees are buzzing quietly,
and the roar of the air raid alarm is growing through that sound.
at dawn, its voice is not scary,
as we are still filled with optimism.
and this beautiful day, itโs all ahead:
the long white and blue vase,
tall and elegant like a giraffe,
but already covered with hair-thin cracks,
the future shards.
it still holds together, by a miracle.
Salt Marsh
Iโve seen everything.
the sad guardian angel,
the wilted wings are all in concrete dust,
was sitting on the ruins of the burnt-out house.
the whole family died as fast as if
someone sucked out embryos,
as if no one has ever lived.
now the angel has to get up and walk,
putting his duckโs feet on the shrapnel and rubble,
crunch, crunch, crackle,
looking for new people to protect.
in the evening, the wary, fiery-orange elks of sunset
will come here,
to the salt marsh of the sorrow,
and will be licking the tasty dirt
that has already forgotten us.
ะ ะฐััะฒะตั
ะฒะพั ะพะฝ ัะฐััะฒะตั – ะฝะตะณะฐ ัะฐะฝะฝะตะณะพ ะปะตัะฝะตะณะพ ัััะฐ –
ะผัะณะบะธะต ัะธะฝะธะบะธ ะฑะตะท ะบะพััะพัะตะบ, ะธ ะดััะฐ ะฝะตะพั ะพัะฝะพ
ะฒัะฟะพะผะธะฝะฐะตั – ะฒะพะนะฝะฐ.
ะฒะพะนะฝะฐ ะถะดะตั, ะบะฐะถะดะพะต ัััะพ ะฒัััะตัะฐะตั ะฝะฐั
ะฟัะพะทัะฐัะฝัะน ัะตัะฑะตั.
ััะตััั ััะตะผั ะผะพัะดะฐะผะธ ะพ ะฝะพะณะธ. ะพ ะณะพัะปะพ.
ะบะฐะบ ัะตะฑะต ัะฟะฐะปะพัั?
ะฟะพัะตัะธ ะทะฐ ััะฐะผะธ. ัะตะณะพะดะฝั ั ะฝะต ะฑัะดั ัะตะฑั ะทะฐะณััะทะฐัั
ะฝะฐัะผะตััั. ะณะพะฒะพัะธั ะพะดะฝะฐ ะณะพะปะพะฒะฐ.
ะธะปะธ ะฑัะดั.
ะธะณัะธะฒะพ ะฒัะปะฐะธะฒะฐะตั ะฒัะพัะฐั. ะฐ ััะตััั ััะถะตะปะพ ะผะพะปัะธั,
ะฒะฝะธะผะฐัะตะปัะฝะพ ัะปะตะดะธั.
ะฐ ะฒะพ ะดะฒะพัะต ะบัััั ัะพะท ัะฐััะฒะตะปะธ
ะฑัะนะฝัะผะธ ะผะพัะดะฐััะผะธ ะฑััะพะฝะฐะผะธ:
ัะตะปะบะพะฒัะต ัะฐะฝั ะฝะฐะฒัะฝะพั.
ะธ ะฟัะตะปั ัะพะฝะบะพ ะถัะถะถะฐั,
ะธ ัะฝะพะฒะฐ ะฟัะพัะฐััะฐะตั ะฒะพะน ัะธัะตะฝั โ ะฒะพะทะดััะฝะฐั ััะตะฒะพะณะฐ โ
ัััะพะผ ััะพั ะทะฒัะบ ะฝะต ัะฐะบ ัััะฐัะตะฝ,
ะฒะตะดั ะผั ะตัะต ะฝะฐะฟะพะปะฝะตะฝั ะพะฟัะธะผะธะทะผะพะผ ะฟะพัะปะต ัะฝะฐ.
ััะพั ะฟัะตะบัะฐัะฝัะน ะดะตะฝั. ะพะฝ ะฒะตัั ะฒะฟะตัะตะดะธ-
ะดะปะธะฝะฝะฐั ะฑะตะปะพ-ะณะพะปัะฑะฐั ะฒะฐะทะฐ
ะฒััะพะบะฐั ะธ ัะปะตะณะฐะฝัะฝะฐั ะบะฐะบ ะถะธัะฐั,
ัะถะต ะฟะพะบัััะฐ ะฝะตะทะฐะผะตัะฝัะผะธ ััะตัะธะฝะฐะผะธ,
ะฑัะดััะธะผะธ ะพัะบะพะปะบะฐะผะธ.
ะฝะพ ะพะฝะฐ ะดะตัะถะธััั ะบะฐะบะธะผ-ัะพ ััะดะพะผ.
ัะพะปะพะฝัะฐะบ
ั ะฒัะต ะฒะธะดะตะป.
ะฟะตัะฐะปัะฝัะน ะฐะฝะณะตะป-ั ัะฐะฝะธัะตะปั,
ะพะฑะฒะธััะธะต ะบััะปัั ะฟะพะบัััั ะฑะตัะพะฝะฝะพะน ะฟัะปัั,
ัะธะดะตะป ะฝะฐ ะพะฑะณะพัะตะฒัะธั ะบะฐะผะฝัั ะฒ ัะพะถะถะตะฝะฝะพะผ ะดะพะผะต.
ะฒัั ัะตะผัั ะฟะพะณะธะฑะปะฐ ะฑััััะพ
ะฑัะดัะพ ะพััะพัะฐะปะธ ะทะฐัะพะดััะธ.
ัะพัะฝะพ ะฝะต ะฑัะปะพ ะฝะธะบะพะณะพ.
ัะตะฟะตัั ะฐะฝะณะตะปั ะฝัะถะฝะพ ะฒััะฐัั ะธ ะธะดัะธ ะฟะพ ะพัะบะพะปะบะฐะผ
ััะธะฝัะผะธ ะปะฐะฟะบะฐะผะธ ั ััััั ัััััั,
ะธัะบะฐัั ะฝะพะฒัั ะปัะดะตะน ะดะปั ะทะฐัะธัั.
ะพะดะฝะฐะถะดั ะฒะตัะตัะพะผ ััะดะฐ ะฟัะธะดัั
ะพะณะฝะตะฝะฝะพ-ะพัะฐะฝะถะตะฒัะต ัััะบะธะต ะปะพัะธ ะทะฐะบะฐัะฐ
ะฝะฐ ัะพะปะพะฝัะฐะบ ะณะพัั,
ะธ ะฑัะดัั ะถะตะฒะฐัั ะปะธะทะฐัั ะฒะบััะฝัั ะทะตะผะปั,
ะณะดะต ะฝะฐั ัะถะต ะฝะตั.
Dmitry Blizniuk is a poet from Ukraine. His most recent poems have appeared in Rattle, The Cincinnati Review, The Nation, Prairie Schooner, Plume, The London Magazine, Guernica, Denver Quarterly, Pleiades, and many others. A Pushcart Prize nominee, he is also the author of The Red Fะพrest (Fowlpox Press, 2018). His poems have been awarded RHINO 2022 Translation Prize.
Sergey Gerasimov is a Ukraine-based writer, poet, and translator of poetry. Among other things, he has studied psychology. He is the author of several academic articles on cognitive psychology. When he is not writing, he leads a simple life of teaching, playing tennis, and kayaking down beautiful Ukrainian rivers. The largest book publishing companies in Russia, such as AST, Eksmo, and others have published his books. His stories and poems written in English have appeared in Adbusters, Clarkesworld Magazine, Strange Horizons, J Journal, The Bitter Oleander, and Acumen, among many others. His last book is Oasis published by Gypsy Shadow. The poetry he translated has been nominated for several Pushcart Prizes. His novel about survival in Kharkiv under heavy bombardment, originally written in English, has been published in a Swiss magazine, in German.
This collection includes poems written in 2020-2023.ย (Russian edition)
“The Lingering Twilight” (“ะกัะผะตัะบะธ”) is Marina Eskin’s fifth book of poems. (Russian edition)
Launched in 2012, “Four Centuries” is an international electronic magazine of Russian poetry in translation.
A collection of moving, often funny vignettes about a childhood spent in the Soviet Union.
“Vivid picture of life behind the Iron Curtain.” โBooklist
“This unique book will serve to promote discussions of freedom.” โSchool Library Journal
A book of poems by Maria Galina, put together and completed exactly one day before the start of the Russian invasion of Ukraine. This is Galina’s seventh book of poems. With translations by Anna Halberstadt and Ainsley Morse.
A new collection of poems by Ian Probstein. (In Russian)