Introduction by Rae Feldman
Poems by Yana Dniprovska
Artwork by Rana Roosevelt
Introduction
In her poetry collection, Yana Dniprovska explores poignant themes of renewal, loss and persistence through fascinating imagery and touching language. She paints haunting images of life stricken by war through lines like “Death hits you with the shoulder / on the crossroad”. However, not all of her pieces are filled with sadness — some offer hope for the future (The earth creates good / out of rotten souls and rotten bodies). There is a silence in her pieces, a silence that communicates all the heaviness and tragedies of the war. Yet, a silence that knows this will not last forever, and a silence that urges to keep fighting for a time without darkness.
Yana’s first poem was written at the beginning of the full-scale invasion, where she lived with nine others in a two room apartment. Despite the struggles Yana faced, her piece captures vibrant, moving images of rebirth and natural order. It is a poignant window into a time when natural order will resume and once again, Ukraine will belong to its rightful people. Its powerful line (Your native land / be sure of it / will forever stay yours) is an evocative ending that urges readers to never lose hope amidst the darkness.
Her second poem, once again untitled, reflects on the symbolism of snow during the invasion. While snow is usually a symbol of joy and holiday cheer, it instead was another obstacle for the Ukranian people that made their fight harder. By juxtaposing a usually positive image with the new meaning it has taken on during the war, she reveals that the struggles Ukraine faces seep into everyday life. Her somber language and resonant imagery stick with the reader, even after their eyes pick up the last word and they are forced to confront the true, unforgettable nature of war.
Her final poem wrestles with death, its sudden call, and the unfinished state a life will be left in. Yana captures grief over unfinished work, remaining “without its owners / left on a leash tied to a handrail”. The questions she evokes are not only profound, but are becoming increasingly more important to consider as the invasion takes more lives. Yana reminds us of the horrors of death and the artwork that will be left behind and will be “frozen / stuck in time / of paints withered / tangled in fabric”. Nobody is invincible from Death’s sudden appearance, her deeply personal piece dictates.
As you finish Yana’s pieces, all that is lost in the war and its impact on people’s lives is evident through her profound honesty. Her poems are a true testament to the spirit of the Ukrainian people, a spirit that will not be extinguished or smothered. Her creative voice is one that is growing increasingly important in the midst of the war, and her lessons must not be forgotten.
Poems by Yana Dniprovska
A body: a sticky allotment.
Earth gives birth to bread.
A body makes a measure out of earth.
The measure of freedom: Home.
Humanity, a measure
to all the measures.
Peace to those who built nests,
who covered them with bags full of sand
and who always loved them.
Life comes to a shelter under the earth
and throws the wicked
who will help the seeds grow,
throws them into the earth.
The earth will devour the fruit of your deeds.
The earth creates good
out of rotten souls and rotten bodies.
Your native land —
be sure of it —
forever will stay yours.
Author’s comment: “I wrote this one at the beginning of the full-scale invasion.
A week after February 24, I was with my boyfriend and his mother, 800
kilometers away from our hometown. My parents thought it would be better if I
left the city then — in case we’d had to flee the occupation, it would have been
easier for them to take our whole family without me (I have two brothers, a
sister and a dog).
There were nine of us in total, living in a two-room apartment in a small town
Volochysk, Khmelnytskyi region. We lived there for six months. I had never
left my family for so long.”
***
First snow
stole the last rain with it
and was there.
Not for the ones who wanted to see it again.
For the ones it hurt this year: not out of spite.
People will say:
“Snow on trenches
is like salt on the earth’s stitch”.
But snow kept falling.
Not to disturb the dreaming.
Greeted only the ones it found
a bit dazed, caught off guard.
Whatever collateral paid,
the winter will bring snow: again and again.
For us, whatever comes will go,
whatever came — it is already gone.
You take care of your wellbeing,
do more good,
gift some warmth
to those around the badly-timed snow
who aren’t reminded of Christmas anymore.
Author’s comment: “This is a poem about the first snow in the winter of 2023.
At that time, there was a lot of discussion online, that this year's snow was no
reason to rejoice because the military needed new winter uniforms and it is
harder to disguise equipment from the enemy in winter.”
***
Dedicated to Misha Beketov (call sign — «Ryzhyi», Gingerhead), Ukrainian
musician, poet and soldier from Dnipro city, who died defending our country.
Death does not come on the deathbed.
Death hits you with the shoulder
at the crossroad
where you’ve been today
not even saying
“excuse me”
or “no offence”.
It seems like some more
and I will have the full right to say this.
Everyone will eventually hold fingers
that tremble,
because they will somehow have to tell her:
“Misha died yesterday”.
And when holding —
just try not to squeeze hard.
The past — living and dead — is being destroyed.
How many more
instagram memory pages,
how many more poems and demos
will remain without their owners
left on a leash tied to a handrail
near a supermarket
bleeding with signs and sounds?
They will not know
they have to be dressed in black
and will glow inappropriately,
joyfully,
senselessly,
trivially,
playfully.
How many more will be released downstream?
How do we preserve what disappears faster
than what's written with a pitchfork
on the water?
(No) memory will remain after them.
Just
several hundred lines with no punctuation,
several thousand seconds of different tones,
several tens of square meters of graphite,
frozen,
stuck in time,
of paints
withered,
tangled in fabric.
And all of these for some reason
ain't claimed to be eternal
after Their death,
but become even more fragile
and intimidated.
Original:
Смерть не торкається чола на одрі
Смерть зачіпає плечем на перехрестях
якими ти сьогодні ходив
і не вибачається
Здається ще трохи
і в мене буде повне право на ці рядки
Кожен колись потримає в руках пальці
що тремтять
бо вони завтра будуть відповідальні
за повідомлення
Міша вчора загинув
головне — не стискати сильно
Минуле — живе і мертве — руйнується
Скільки іще
інстаграм-сторінок пам'яті
Скільки ще віршів і демок
залишаться без власників
і сидітимуть на прив'язі забуті під супермаркетом
і кровоточитимуть звуками й знаками
які не знатимуть
яким має бути настрій
Ярітимуть недоречно радісно
безглуздо буденно награно
Скільки ще за течією буде пущено
Зафіксувати те
що зникає швидше
ніж вилами по воді писане
По них житиме
кілька сотень рядків без пунктуаційних знаків
кілька тисяч секунд різних тональностей
кілька десятків метрів квадратних
застиглого
застряглого в часі грифеля
засохлих
заплутаних у тканині фарб
І все чомусь після їхньої смерті
не нарікається вічним
а стає іще більш крихким
і зляканим
Translators: Kateryna Kishchynska and Yana Dniprovska
Content Editor: Rae Feldman
Interview with Yana Dniprovska
Image Credits
Artwork by Rana Roosevelt
Rana Roosevelt is a digital and traditional artist from Philadelphia. She loves depicting the human form and challenging herself with strange color schemes. Although she frequently works digitally, her favorite medium is oil paint because of how well it can blend. In her spare time she also plays violin, writes poetry, makes jewelry (and of course, reads old issues of Polyphony Lit!)
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