Introduction by Mirabelle Jiang
Poems by Yevheniia Moskvina
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Artwork by Julian Riccobon
Introduction
Imagine a day where your life suddenly turns upside-down. One moment, everything is familiar—the hum of daily routines, the comfort of normalcy. And then, without warning, the world shifts. In an instant, everything you knew, every plan you had, feels distant, unreachable. What will your life look like? Will there ever be a day where life returns to normal?
In this collection of poems, Yevheniia Moskvina takes us into the moment when her life changed forever, the lives torn apart by the Russo-Ukrainian war, and the desperate search for hope amidst chaos. Born in the Donetsk region of Ukraine, Moskvina moved to Kyiv, where she discovered a love for the Ukrainian language and culture. Like almost 6.6 million other Ukrainian refugees, she and her mother escaped her country at the beginning of the Russo-Ukrainian War in 2022, leaving all her friends and family behind. It is from the perspective of a child that Mosvkina writes her poems, which serve as memoirs of the Donetsk region where she grew up and her experiences in the war.
Mosvkina’s first poem, “The War”, captures the moment when she receives the sudden, gut-wrenching news that war has begun, which is juxtaposed with a peaceful walk to school. Nature, once serene, becomes ominous, and time itself seems to unravel as her familiar world gives way to chaos.
In “Redundant Words”, Mosvkina reflects on the emotional dislocation and numbness of those displaced by war. Through vivid imagery of cold streets, “tokens of desperation”, and a “yearning for meaning to be”, she captures the experience of exile and the struggle to find meaning during war.
Yet Mosvkina’s story doesn’t end in sadness. Her final poem, “Край”, refers to the idea of land, country, or end and offers readers a glimmer of hope. It imagines a world where the horrors of conflict are replaced by peace, where children play in craters left by bombs and families reunite. In this poignant vision of a future after war, Moskvina reminds us of the resilience of a nation at war and the enduring hope of the Ukrainian people for a brighter tomorrow.
It is from a deeply personal place of displacement and loss that these poems emerge. As you read, consider the moments when your life shifted, and make note of Mosvkina’s powerful message of resistance and hope during the darkest times of despair in war.
"The War"
Sunlight spills on trees and bushes. Leaves rustle somewhere far away. I listen closely, but the more I concentrate, the less defined the melody becomes. I try to take it all in on my way to school. I walk slowly on the path, I breathe in the fresh air. The spots of sunlight sparkle, spilling in through the thick green above.
The wind blows. The leaves around me begin to whisper. They seem to be trying to tell me something, they seem to be pointing to the branches in the sky.
The words of the leaves are barely audible, as if someone is calling out to me from far away. I hear them – sh-waa, shh-waa, shwra-aa, wri-ite, shwraa, shh, sh, p-sh, p-sh. The noise rages in waves, in bushes, and in intervals. They rustle. Above, a bird is flying, but its wings barely move.
I can’t see the end of the path, the horizon seeps out in the hot light.
When I swim above ground, the sunspots hug me, warm me, playing. O-sh-p-sh-p-sh. The rustling continues to whisper as if it's static from a bad walkie-talkie.
Something rings this morning. A bird, or the school bell – I can’t tell at this point. I’m on the porch already. A path of soil turns into the reddened flooring of the corridor.
The time reverberates. Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh, p-sh-p-sh-p-sh-p-sh. The sun pours from the window. It nuzzles up to me and kisses my nose.
“Why?”
“I don’t know…”, the sad tone almost spreads on the walls.
I know that tone. This hum, like that soil, like boiling coffee, like a crow’s screech. It flies from desk to desk, from chair to chair, from the window to the blackboard.
“Got school tomorrow?” Feathers fall, swaying midair as my teacher’s crow-like voice echoes with the space.
“The war has begun.” The words hit me on the back of my head, ringing like the last shrilling cries of the school bell.
The tone grabs me by the ears with its claws, then spills and mumbles. Light spots drip from the window and seep into the room.
I wait.
I cannot make out my teacher’s face. The room is filling with light.
“What?” Drops from my lips.
“The war has begun,” her voice swims out absentmindedly and hangs above me like a wave.
I want to see her eyes. The closer I try to look, the stronger the light is pouring on us.
The curtains rise and fly like a flag in the air, raging with the waves of sunlight.
Somewhere in the distance, the whispering starts. P-sh-p-sh-p-sh-p-sh, louder and louder.
“Whhhen will it shhtoph?” I barely hear it in the wave crashing into me.
“I don’t know,” tremble the feathers. The crow folds its wings, hides its power, closes its eyes from the blinding light and falls asleep.
P-sh-p-sh-p-sh-p-sh-p-sh, I hear from afar.
The room is filled with light. I see nothing except the white warmth and spots in my eyes. The waves whisper louder and louder.
They fill the whole room, they reverberate between the walls.
Dead silence. The war has begun.
"Redundant Words"
The hand of the clock
Matters no more,
The light of the torch
That’s the new world.
This is the time, not us. Or are we so out of place?
Like strangers and tramps.
Children, women, and storks,
Furtive and harried like punitive dogs.
Through streets and backdoors,
Pavement of ancient alleys
Paths of Pilgrim shadows
Sprawl widely in patterns.
Foreign tokens of desperation,
Alien tunes, unfamiliar tales,
Language, broken and separate
Traveling letters, long-awaited and pale.
Nudity of spirit, hunger of ear,
Yearning for meaning to be,
Something adults shouldn't hear,
And kids must not see.
Chill-bitten nose, coldness of feet
Through thick and warm clothes the winter remains,
Is it December on the horizon I see?
Is it cold winter coming again?
My pockets are empty,
No words can I grip,
Once I had plenty to say
As an innocent kid.
"Край"
Край: pronounced “cry”, the idea of a land, country, edge, or end.
Imagine that you wake up someday to the happiest morning of your life. I know that you’re hesitant to trust another morning now. Will it ever come? The only thing holding you together is the hope that it would.
Someday you’ll breathe a sigh of relief.
You’re probably already used to standing at the edge of the abyss and staring into it. You hear voices crawling into your ears like spiders, weaving their webs inside. And your head gets so empty, not a single word left, and your soul gets so desolate, not a feeling to be felt.
There, on the other side of the abyss, the trees are dry and bare and littered with crows. The horizon is smoking as bursts of gunfire ring out below the humming of the planes. You step forward, ever so closer. Don’t look there, take a step back from the edge of hope.
Imagine waking up, but not from an explosion.
“The war is over.”
“What?” You’ll rub your eyes and pinch yourself.
“The war is over!” A happy voice will echo from wall to wall, in alleys and walkways, on subway and train stations.
“Victory!” The ceramic rooster will scream from atop the kitchen cabinet, looking at the neighborhood previously obscured by a wall.
When that morning comes, the children outside will play in a crater left by an explosion, no longer interested in the playground – they will have grown out of it.
All of them have grown up, too fast and too early.
When that morning comes, the nightingale will flap its wings and take off from the opposite nine-story building. You will follow its easy flight across the sky. And no matter what sky it is, gray or blue, it will always be clear for you.
“Can you hear it? The war is over!” You scream at the sky to those no longer walking the earth.
You spin around, head held high, observing the sky. The trees around sway in the wind. You listen closely, and the only thing you hear… is serenity. A calmness you’ve never heard before. You hear the laughter of a child — a child whose father has finally returned. You see how tightly the wife hugs her husband after a long time apart.
When that morning comes, trains from Poland will come to the stations. There are long lines on the border. People are hugging everywhere. Friends are exchanging stories on benches in parks.
“I’ve never had ice cream in Poland,” comes a nervous laugh from one bench.
“Ha! Why?” a surprised voice.
“What can I say,” — drifts over from another bench. “Well, bonjour, je m'appelle Anastasiya.”
“Ach so! Ja!”, someone behind your back says out of habit.
You get lost in the diversity of languages you could only hear in classes of the past. And now so many Ukrainians speak three languages at least.
Stepping into the nearest store you see long lines. People who have had sweets you’ve never even seen before are genuinely happy buying Mivina1 and Morshynska2 as if they were a 10-karat diamond ring or a Rolex. And it doesn’t matter that some of them have AirPods in or the latest iPhone peeking out of their back pockets. They are enjoying the cheap glazed curds with cherry filling all the same, soaking in the delights of the past.
The sun is setting over the horizon, but you continue to walk through the calm city, happy like a child. You laugh because you don’t hear sirens anymore since there’s no curfew. You feel endless happiness.
At night, the doorbell rings as you sit in the kitchen. This is your old friend, the one you haven’t heard from for ages. You open the door and he steps in without a word, sets a bottle of sparkling wine down, and hugs you. You stand like that in total silence because there is no need for words. You go into the kitchen, sit down, and quietly drink. You look at his face, changed, with wrinkles on the forehead, between his eyebrows, and in the corners of his eyes. He has a lot of gray hair. He keeps silent. He’s changed so much… And you hold his hand and think of endless waiting. But now he is here, dearest Mr. Calm.
You had to grow up, but that doesn’t mean you’ve lost the ability to dream. You inner child is still alive. Can you imagine this joy? As if you have a new birthday.
Your eyes have seen death, they know what it is. But ahead of you is a new life in your cozy land.
That happiest morning will come. And let it be so every subsequent one is mostest.
1. Mivina (Ukrainian: Мівіна): a type of instant noodles sold in Ukraine.
2. Morshynska (Ukranian: Моршинська): a brand of water sold in Ukraine.
Translators: Oleksandr Sokolov
Content Editor : Mirabelle Jiang
Interview with Yevheniia Moskvina
Thank you for submitting these pieces. I'd love to know more about your personal experiences with writing. How does writing help you process or reflect on the events of the Russo-Ukrainian War.
Writing doesn't help me survive the war, war is too terrible a thing to be able to just experience it in writing. In this way, I'm just trying to spread the Ukrainian voice, to tell people what grief Russia is bringing to Europe and the whole world. I want people to know that in fact, the war physically lasts for 10 years, but it has been disappearing and reappearing for over 300 years, since the time of Catherine the Great, who destroyed our Zaporozhian Sich. I want people to put the ‘Great Russian Culture’ out of their minds, because it is not, it is just a big propaganda machine. I compare our struggle to the fall of Troy, but unlike Troy, we survived, our Cossack spirit is still alive.
What authors or literary works do you take inspiration from? Did they shape your poems in any way?
Definitely Ulas Samchuk and his ‘Maria’, Taras Shevchenko and his ‘Kateryna’, and the personality of Mykola Khvylovyi. They did not shape my poems, but they definitely shaped my views and changed my consciousness.
Your poem "Redundant Words" contains many literal and figurative images, such as "children, women, and storks" being "harried like dogs" and the line "nudity of spirit, hunger of ear." Are any of these images based on scenes or emotions that you've experienced in real life, and could you elaborate on them?
Yes, the images in my work are taken from real life. My mother and I had to cross the border with Poland on foot, those were very difficult days in our lives, as we packed everything we cared about into bags, my backpack was full of books and I was holding a cat box. It was early March and the temperature was below zero. We had been standing in a one-kilometre-long queue for almost a day. Everything hurt and I was begging God to kill me from the cold. I was definitely not ready for this, I was wearing a light jacket and heavy bags.
I really love the hopeful tone that's being presented in "Land (Cry)." In times of darkness and war, how do you hold hope for your country and your own future?
This is not a hope, but rather a duty. We have to hold on, otherwise we will simply lose. You can never give up on your fight, it is a big step towards defeat.
It's very interesting that the war is filled with so much sunlight and brightness, when the poem's message is so dark and ominous. Is this contrast intentional?
Yes, this contrast is intentional. I wanted to convey that war is not only about death, but also about enlightenment. Unfortunately. At that moment, consciousness turns upside down, it's hard to realize reality, and then so many new things open up in life, so many myths are destroyed that you don't understand how you lived in that darkness, how you were so blind. And also in Ukrainian, the word “education” comes from the word “to shine”.
What do you hope that readers will take away from your pieces?
I hope that readers will feel our Ukrainian pain and finally understand what is wrong with Pushkin and why this culture is deadly for everyone. Russia is a terrorist state. This is what I want readers to understand.
Image Credits
Artwork by Julian Riccobon.
Julian Riccobon (he/him) is a writer, editor, and artist of Italian/Panamanian descent, and the Managing Director of Polyphony Lit. His work has been published in Huizache: The Magazine of a New America, The Acentos Review, Flash Fiction Online, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Blue Marble Review, and F(r)iction Lit, among other places, and his favorite genres to write are contemporary fiction, magical realism, and historical fiction. He is currently drafting a magical realism novel about a bunch of loco neighbors who live together in a rowhouse in San Diego. You can check out his website here.
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