Introduction by Anshi Purohit
Poems by Viktoria Stasko
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Artwork by Claire Lin
Introduction
In this poetry collection, Viktoria Stasko explores how putting on emotional facades becomes a devastating reality during wartime. Strength is synonymous with overcoming loss and inconceivable trauma. By connecting her second-person narrator with mythological beings, capturing her setting with directional imagery, and weaving desperation through the dialogue in her verse, Stasko’s pieces reveal this loss of innocence.
Although Stasko’s pieces are untitled, their anonymity creates a thread for narrative to breathe and explore itself. We read between the emotions of our narrator, whose surroundings have turned nature into a personified villain. Their sun is "gloating" while the narrator wishes it to "be extinguished." Here, nature becomes a metaphorical if not directly physical place where refuge and reflection intersect. When the narrator experiences intense grief, words give them space but nature mocks them by dousing their world in vivid color.
Rhetorical questions challenge readers, compelling us to listen to one aching voice among a chorus of many stories burdened by an insurmountable grief. Stasko aims her pleas at the Greek god of war, Hades, referring to his war-torn home as a “cheap motel” worth “paying for in blood.” Her narrator questions what value means to them as they navigate beyond the “frontiers of their freedom,” abandoning their childhood and familial memories.
Stasko’s work unfolds harsh realities before the reader, her word choice intentional and important as we begin to reconcile with how war can scar people’s emotional integrity for generations.
Our figures shall be hidden among hirsute trees
Our figures shall be hidden among hirsute trees.
Promise me you won’t forget and that you’ll shed tears
Promise to preserve the scores of songs resembling the screams
You heard behind the walls of cold neighboring wards.
Here we are. Standing warm, torn apart by the bullets, alive.
Look: there’s your shadow right around and mine is behind
There sunken battleships line up for battle
All breathing earth, wind, water and fire.
Here we are. Underneath our feet - the sky, above it - Renaissance.
Not by the price with which I’d comply
Our flock is about ceaseless ascendance
Though there will be our time to fly.
The time marches up boldly from hell,
Though to hell it would likely give in.
Fear and cry, frankly, there’s no dread to be felt
Scary is when you’d like to fear but you can’t.
The sun is gloating at us, don't you think?
The sun is gloating at us, don’t you think?
If only it could be extinguished, denied,
If only one could yell at the sky, rip it out
Or are we doomed for the rest of our days now?
Where does one discover how to live?
From orbits forsaken and abandoned by God,
we swim away on withered shark gills
Dragging the waves with boots salty and torn.
Father, I’m home! My home is a minefield!
My hands warm with charred bodies, covered in blood,
Take them under the covers with you for a while
Don’t let your gray lashes fall from your eyes.
You hear me, Hades? Maybe at yours it is safe?
Are cheap motels worth paying for them in blood?
My requests aren’t always fitting to say,
but let us become dwellers of your underground!
Pack up, we move beyond the frontiers of your freedom
Pack up, we move beyond the frontiers of your freedom.
There will be no son, no mom and no family indeed.
You may leave the lines of your beauty, so pretty
for there will be nowhere and no-one who can see.
Quickly, grab gold and something of value for barter,
Wait till a rain ends on the central square,
Your goods you can trade then for salt and water,
And for life and truth, of course, if you dare.
Should you go past a busker who’s blind,
Toss no soggy bill nor a coin,
No other option or choice you could find
To leave a letter of hope amidst turmoil.
Still,he will play. He will be talking to God,
Cease grabbing sleeves of his coat at once
Let there be ravens firing shots round the corner
His sacred figure shall be displaced by none.
Go back to the streets, stretch your hands up to beg.
Forget everything has been said by me…or someone
The only salt and water you get are tears you shed:
That is the best way to get strong as of now.
Translator: Oleksandr Sokolov
Content Editor : Anshi Purohit
Note: These pieces were previously published at Mystetskyi Arsenal "Antytvir"
Interview with Viktoria Stasko
What, if anything, inspired you to write these pieces?
I have I don't think there is such a thing as an inspiration in our condition. It is rather a need. A need to remember this state of emotions, a need to be present.
Your work addresses a second person 'you' in every piece; is this intentional to narrow/widen your intended audience or introduce a different world?
Well, this is a great question. I've never thought of this, because nothing in my texts is intentional. Poetry is always something that is being whispered in your ear by someone/something you don't even know.
How does including Greek mythology and other supernatural beings incorporate your style?
When all plain words are not enough, it's where metaphors take their place.
What do you hope readers can take away from these emotional, introspective poems? Is there any theme you hope they can learn or get exposure to?
I hope they resonate with us or at least understand us. There is so much pain everywhere, but it is naive to think, that all pain is the same, just like thinking that evil is somewhere far away from you is naive. War is real and it is definitely not a show, that you watch and then immediately forget about. It is not only numbers, because behind those are millions of people. People, who made, make and will make history, need your support, donations and publicity. Maybe my words will make you interested in this topic, or maybe will inspire you to read some great authors like Victoria Amelina, Maksym Kryvtsov, Pidmohylny, Bahriany, Symonenko, Stus. It's our duty to make sure their stories are heard. Also my personal recommendation is Arthut Dron's poetry.
Is there a reason you left your pieces untitled?
I simply hate titles. It is a torture for me to put everything written in one line.
How have your experiences contributed to your writing? Is poetry a form of healing for you, and if so, how has this played a role in your piece's subject matter?
As I said earlier it is a way of remembering truth. The way of being sure, that all the things happened to us will never be forgotten.
Image Credits
Artwork by Claire Lin
Claire Lin is a 16-year-old high school sophomore living in Princeton, NJ. In her free time, she enjoys taking sunset pictures, drawing, and reading novels. Her favorite dog breed is border collie.
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