by Lucie Faulerová Translated from the Czech by Alex Zucker It was the worst moment of her life—except for all the others, that is. It was the worst moment of my life—except for all the others, that is. Except for the ones behind me now, waving to me with that look of satisfaction from a job well done, and except for the ones looking forward to me, shuffling their feet in anticipation, watching out for my arrival, chins lifted and arms spread wide.
by Marek Šindelka Translated from the Czech by Nathan Fields
The grain is smooth and shined like a pearl. Hardly half a millimeter in length. Its origin is unclear. Maybe the remains of undersea mountains on the bottom of the ancient ocean, maybe a tiny particle of Saharan sand transported by subtropical wind from continent to continent. Maybe (and this is most probable) it is just ordinary debris without meaning or past. The grain, along with a number of others, is stuck onto a tiny piece of apple pulp full of putrid bacteria. The pulp glistens and ferments.
by Bianca Bellová Translated from the Czech by Julia Sutton-Mattocks
There’s no avoiding it. Everyone suffers from it up here, even if they don’t speak about it. It grips your bowels like a citrus juicer. Vertigo seizes you with such strength that it paralyses you right from the tips of your fingers to your respiratory muscles. You have to resist it from the very first and crowd it out, as fast as you can, or it will eat you alive.
by Jana Šrámková Translated from the Czech by Andrea Goldbergerová
And then there was an awful humming sound, and it already fell down, flying crossways, it just cut out a portion of our house from the side like this. Wouldn’t you go hide in the cellar? We would, we had been there three times at night, but there was no time, I don’t know why they did not sound the alarm, nobody was expecting it.
by Alena Mornštajnová Translated from the Czech by Andrea Goldbergerová
That year, the smell of disinfectant filled the air instead of spring. The houses were huddled to one another, as if they wanted to be comforted in the desolation also surrounding the figures walking through the town streets. Feuds and neighborly quarrels—which seemed important a few weeks ago—were put aside and all conversation revolved only around powerlessness, fear and disease.
by Kateryna Kalytko Translated from the Ukrainian by Oleksandra Gordynchuk
The icon rode in the wagon with him amid sacks full of last year’s potatoes. This grim man in a clunker with a wagon has been Osyp's only chance for a ride on the way there, but at least he was able to stretch his legs out. The potatoes were sprouting; he could even hear their shoots moving in the sacks. The fabric in which the icon was wrapped, slid down a little, revealing a corner of a colorful canvas, and a stray bee, woken by an early warm spell, tried to land on it. Osyp saw this as a good sign and didn’t even worry that the bee would inevitably die once it got colder again.
by Kateryna Khinkulova Translated from the Ukrainian by Oleksandra Gordynchuk
I did not bury Tanya – I scattered her ashes in Paris. All this romantic appeal – dying somewhere but not in Paris, bridges over the Seine, whatever – really got under my skin. I stood on one of the bridges, Bolik sleeping in his stroller. It wasn’t the Mirabeau Bridge, but I could see the Eiffel Tower and the Musee d’Orsay from it anyway. I didn’t have enough courage to do this during the day, so we came late at night when it got completely dark.
A brief encounter in Brussels at Christmas, then the flight eastwards: a housewife and a shopgirl caught up in an amour fou that will lose itself, unresolved, in a criss crossing of limbs and European landscapes, finally coming to a standstill in Trieste, along the Slovenian border. At the edge of the Western world, one burning question: where do lovers go when all has been escaped from?
by Alisa Ganieva Translated from the Russian by Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
The three law enforcement men had already been clicking around the parquet of the downstairs rooms for quite a while, two citizens deputized to witness the search trudging along behind them, gaping at the fancy décor of the Lyamzin house.
by Oleksiy Chupa Translated from the Ukrainian by Zenia Tompkins
These days no one would even remember who Gerhardt Frei was. Yet, some sixty-odd years ago, this name ended up at the center of most kitchen table conversations throughout the city. After the final rout of the Third Reich, he, along with thousands of other German POWs, was sent here, to our part of Eastern Ukraine, for construction work. Frei was taken prisoner all the way out in the suburbs of Berlin.
When we are touched we are moved. Silence emerges, blooms, but, as in Nature so in us, silence can only last for a second. Then we have to speak, do, move. And thus we make, create, take action to be with, to participate in, yet to not disturb the vision that we are presented with. We do what we can to hold onto and deepen our experience of the moment that grasps our attention. We open our heart as wide as we can to receive its mystic content. We bare what we are able to. One person only a bit stronger than the next.
Look in the mirror and see how your eyes will frame age and time. Death is the most obvious beginning. We dress up a corpse to convince ourselves this is a person. Still, if the corpse can be forgotten, death is also the easiest way to avoid the fate of the material. Existent only in memory, the deceased is perfectly singular.
by Vasyl Makhno Translated from the Ukrainian by Ali Kinsella
There was a time when the hills of Bazar were the highest and the greenest. And I carried the Dzhurynka River nestled in my shirt like a quail’s egg found in the grass. And the rains came to us like guests on the Intercession; and snow grazed on the banks of the Dzhurynka.
by Lyuba Yakimchuk Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan
I sometimes do things that my friends never do. As a matter of fact, I watch the local news of the occupied Ukrainian territories that these occupiers call "republics," and this looks like some kind of masochism, apparently.
by Andriy Tuzhykov Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan.
The Ukrainian People's House in Chernivtsi, where Anna works, is surrounded by three streets: Ukrainian street, Armenian street, and Yakob von Petrovich street, named after the Armenian mayor of Chernivtsi. Sometimes, they simply say Jakob Petrovich street without the prefix “von”, for it makes the democrats get too annoyed, so both versions are used in the various guides, web pages and street conversations. In front of the People's House there is an Armenian church which also serves as a concert hall.
by Oleksandr Boichenko Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan
In the country of a constantly fierce, although predominantly contrived ideological struggle, Meridian professes the ideology of tolerance. In the country where Russian still remains the language of interethnic communication, Meridian speaks a dozen languages. In the country filled up to the brim with vodka, Meridian promotes a culture of wine consumption.
by Oleksandr Boichenko Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan and Zenia Tompkins
Since writers (Kundera, in particular, but long before him: Strindberg, Joyce or Celan, for example) have suggested to critics that a literary work can be composed in accordance with the laws of music, the latter – that is, the critics – began to use, where it was necessary and not, terms such as a "poem-fuga," "drama-sonata," "novel-symphony" and so on.
With neither friends nor family to meet me at the airport, I stumbled out of a black cab and into central London. It was early September, and I was twenty-three. My two old suitcases had barely survived the transatlantic flight, and were refusing to stay still. They continually found themselves in someone else’s way as I navigated through Victoria Station. I was painfully aware of each inelegant fumble I made over cobblestoned pavement and my awkward hesitations at crosswalks, uncertain of which direction to look for oncoming traffic.
Legend has it that Tunisia was founded in the ninth century BC by a woman. Her name was Elissar (also known as Elissa, or Alyssar). The legend goes roughly like this:According to the Greek historian Timaeus, King Belus of the Phoenician Empire of Tyre (modern-day Lebanon) nominated both his son Pygmalion and his daughter Elissar to be his heirs. Pygmalion, however, was a tyrant; he usurped the throne, killing his sister’s husband and forcing her to flee.
In March of 2014, a few days after Russia’s illegal annexation of the Crimean peninsula, my mother called to warn me against returning home. A new border between Crimea and Ukraine had been established overnight, and tanks were rolling down the street outside of my parent’s house. As a human rights lawyer and pro-Ukrainian activist, she knew that I would be labeled an enemy of the Russian government. I am now a foreigner in my own home. Ukrainian phone lines stopped working in Crimea soon after, and I could no longer call my parents.
by Ondřej Hanus Translated from the Czech by Nathan Fields
the first verse decides through Holešovice underpass back into Mother airtight sleep of narration spawns flaring micronarratives a thing is the ekphrasis of essence and essence is the ekphrasis of God that is the last use of matter
by Pavel Kolmačka Translated from the Czech by Nathan Fields
LIVING IN HARMONY even with blossoming trees. We shout, we laugh, we carry, we lift, we load hives, lids, pedestals, we tighten straps and drive in wedges.
I remembered the scene when her lover got trampled by an elephant. She lifted herself above the despair. Last time I went dancing I was at the level of sky. I felt my body unfold because I was so close to getting what I wanted and then it folded again
The Girl with No Tail has no balance. She teeters on the brink, eclipses precipice. Threat of falling does not thump hard in her chest, does not live in her throat, her tiny black throat. She lives like danger becomes her. She lets herself wobble against wind, a branchless tree: thin.
You’re crouched outside the car, limbs folded like a broken sun chair, spluttering and vomiting against rocks that gut your hands like first-century nails. I’m gripping the seat, picturing the world about to go tumbling, frozen by gravity that wasn’t there minutes ago. The music explodes through the speakers, tries to drown out the sounds of your shuddering, your gasping for air, your downhill battles that shred the still night in two.
by Slavick Ciganec Translated from the Ukrainian by Olena Jennings
in her eyes a sign should read “swimming prohibited” no one knows how many of those who ignored it drowned one day you’ll want to try it but there is one tiny problem you must dive to the very bottom and come face to face with the heavenly or martyrs
The airport terminal is only familiar because Nietzsche is—there he stands, with a silent yawp. Your body murmurs but you learn to extrapolate the creaks into joint movements. These scrapes of glue paper and unwanted items – unreal carpet route, real scrap. How less we require. How much we desire, how much we have, how much we keep, of it all, the body is closest.
by Sergey Lebedev Translated from the Russian by Dmytro Kyyan
They could arrest the garden gnomes, exterminate swallows and spiders, roll a granite pavement in asphalt, take out to the East the porcelain figurines from a chest of drawers that peeped through the window, replace the human souls with an overcoat cloth
"... at the moment I froze on the spot for a few seconds, minutes or hours? I do not know exactly. And then I just thought about how to vanish in that fantastic space-time before the others come for me. "
In a search of shapes, passages of light, curves of shadows and lines, I inevitably end up at the intersection of my most beloved motifs: nature/woman/city. Attempting to match them, while shaping it all into black and white, I try to picture with the light and shadow things which trouble, delight or inspire me.
“When I was a kid,” writes Moscow-born photographer Sergey Neamoscou, “my favorite pastime was looking through my dad’s photo albums. There were photos from his youth, his military service… Even today, I still love looking through people’s photo albums, but I always dread those last few pages, not because it’s over, no―because they are always empty.”
Fiction
by Lucie Faulerová
Translated from the Czech by Alex Zucker
It was the worst moment of her life—except for all the others, that is. It was the worst moment of my life—except for all the others, that is. Except for the ones behind me now, waving to me with that look of satisfaction from a job well done, and except for the ones looking forward to me, shuffling their feet in anticipation, watching out for my arrival, chins lifted and arms spread wide.
by Marek Šindelka
Translated from the Czech by Nathan Fields
The grain is smooth and shined like a pearl. Hardly half a millimeter in length. Its origin is unclear. Maybe the remains of undersea mountains on the bottom of the ancient ocean, maybe a tiny particle of Saharan sand transported by subtropical wind from continent to continent. Maybe (and this is most probable) it is just ordinary debris without meaning or past. The grain, along with a number of others, is stuck onto a tiny piece of apple pulp full of putrid bacteria. The pulp glistens and ferments.
by Bianca Bellová
Translated from the Czech by Julia Sutton-Mattocks
There’s no avoiding it. Everyone suffers from it up here, even if they don’t speak about it. It grips your bowels like a citrus juicer. Vertigo seizes you with such strength that it paralyses you right from the tips of your fingers to your respiratory muscles. You have to resist it from the very first and crowd it out, as fast as you can, or it will eat you alive.
by Jana Šrámková
Translated from the Czech by Andrea Goldbergerová
And then there was an awful humming sound, and it already fell down, flying crossways, it just cut out a portion of our house from the side like this. Wouldn’t you go hide in the cellar? We would, we had been there three times at night, but there was no time, I don’t know why they did not sound the alarm, nobody was expecting it.
by Alena Mornštajnová
Translated from the Czech by Andrea Goldbergerová
That year, the smell of disinfectant filled the air instead of spring. The houses were huddled to one another, as if they wanted to be comforted in the desolation also surrounding the figures walking through the town streets. Feuds and neighborly quarrels—which seemed important a few weeks ago—were put aside and all conversation revolved only around powerlessness, fear and disease.
by Kateryna Kalytko
Translated from the Ukrainian by Oleksandra Gordynchuk
The icon rode in the wagon with him amid sacks full of last year’s potatoes. This grim man in a clunker with a wagon has been Osyp's only chance for a ride on the way there, but at least he was able to stretch his legs out. The potatoes were sprouting; he could even hear their shoots moving in the sacks. The fabric in which the icon was wrapped, slid down a little, revealing a corner of a colorful canvas, and a stray bee, woken by an early warm spell, tried to land on it. Osyp saw this as a good sign and didn’t even worry that the bee would inevitably die once it got colder again.
by Kateryna Khinkulova
Translated from the Ukrainian by Oleksandra Gordynchuk
I did not bury Tanya – I scattered her ashes in Paris. All this romantic appeal – dying somewhere but not in Paris, bridges over the Seine, whatever – really got under my skin. I stood on one of the bridges, Bolik sleeping in his stroller. It wasn’t the Mirabeau Bridge, but I could see the Eiffel Tower and the Musee d’Orsay from it anyway. I didn’t have enough courage to do this during the day, so we came late at night when it got completely dark.
by Sophie Gertrude Strohmeier
A brief encounter in Brussels at Christmas, then the flight eastwards: a housewife and a shopgirl caught up in an amour fou that will lose itself, unresolved, in a criss crossing of limbs and European landscapes, finally coming to a standstill in Trieste, along the Slovenian border. At the edge of the Western world, one burning question: where do lovers go when all has been escaped from?
by Alisa Ganieva
Translated from the Russian by Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
The three law enforcement men had already been clicking around the parquet of the downstairs rooms for quite a while, two citizens deputized to witness the search trudging along behind them, gaping at the fancy décor of the Lyamzin house.
by Oleksiy Chupa
Translated from the Ukrainian by Zenia Tompkins
These days no one would even remember who Gerhardt Frei was. Yet, some sixty-odd years ago, this name ended up at the center of most kitchen table conversations throughout the city. After the final rout of the Third Reich, he, along with thousands of other German POWs, was sent here, to our part of Eastern Ukraine, for construction work. Frei was taken prisoner all the way out in the suburbs of Berlin.
Letters & Essays
by Billie Hanne
When we are touched we are moved. Silence emerges, blooms, but, as in Nature so in us, silence can only last for a second. Then we have to speak, do, move. And thus we make, create, take action to be with, to participate in, yet to not disturb the vision that we are presented with. We do what we can to hold onto and deepen our experience of the moment that grasps our attention. We open our heart as wide as we can to receive its mystic content. We bare what we are able to. One person only a bit stronger than the next.
by Evan Steuber
Look in the mirror and see how your eyes will frame age and time. Death is the most obvious beginning. We dress up a corpse to convince ourselves this is a person. Still, if the corpse can be forgotten, death is also the easiest way to avoid the fate of the material. Existent only in memory, the deceased is perfectly singular.
by Vasyl Makhno
Translated from the Ukrainian by Ali Kinsella
There was a time when the hills of Bazar were the highest and the greenest. And I carried the Dzhurynka River nestled in my shirt like a quail’s egg found in the grass. And the rains came to us like guests on the Intercession; and snow grazed on the banks of the Dzhurynka.
by Lyuba Yakimchuk
Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan
I sometimes do things that my friends never do. As a matter of fact, I watch the local news of the occupied Ukrainian territories that these occupiers call "republics," and this looks like some kind of masochism, apparently.
by Andriy Tuzhykov
Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan.
The Ukrainian People's House in Chernivtsi, where Anna works, is surrounded by three streets: Ukrainian street, Armenian street, and Yakob von Petrovich street, named after the Armenian mayor of Chernivtsi. Sometimes, they simply say Jakob Petrovich street without the prefix “von”, for it makes the democrats get too annoyed, so both versions are used in the various guides, web pages and street conversations. In front of the People's House there is an Armenian church which also serves as a concert hall.
by Oleksandr Boichenko
Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan
In the country of a constantly fierce, although predominantly contrived ideological struggle, Meridian professes the ideology of tolerance. In the country where Russian still remains the language of interethnic communication, Meridian speaks a dozen languages. In the country filled up to the brim with vodka, Meridian promotes a culture of wine consumption.
by Oleksandr Boichenko
Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan and Zenia Tompkins
Since writers (Kundera, in particular, but long before him: Strindberg, Joyce or Celan, for example) have suggested to critics that a literary work can be composed in accordance with the laws of music, the latter – that is, the critics – began to use, where it was necessary and not, terms such as a "poem-fuga," "drama-sonata," "novel-symphony" and so on.
by Kelsey Farish
With neither friends nor family to meet me at the airport, I stumbled out of a black cab and into central London. It was early September, and I was twenty-three. My two old suitcases had barely survived the transatlantic flight, and were refusing to stay still. They continually found themselves in someone else’s way as I navigated through Victoria Station. I was painfully aware of each inelegant fumble I made over cobblestoned pavement and my awkward hesitations at crosswalks, uncertain of which direction to look for oncoming traffic.
by Raffi Gostanian
Legend has it that Tunisia was founded in the ninth century BC by a woman. Her name was Elissar (also known as Elissa, or Alyssar). The legend goes roughly like this:According to the Greek historian Timaeus, King Belus of the Phoenician Empire of Tyre (modern-day Lebanon) nominated both his son Pygmalion and his daughter Elissar to be his heirs. Pygmalion, however, was a tyrant; he usurped the throne, killing his sister’s husband and forcing her to flee.
by Olga Morkova
In March of 2014, a few days after Russia’s illegal annexation of the Crimean peninsula, my mother called to warn me against returning home. A new border between Crimea and Ukraine had been established overnight, and tanks were rolling down the street outside of my parent’s house. As a human rights lawyer and pro-Ukrainian activist, she knew that I would be labeled an enemy of the Russian government. I am now a foreigner in my own home. Ukrainian phone lines stopped working in Crimea soon after, and I could no longer call my parents.
Poetry
by Ondřej Hanus
Translated from the Czech by Nathan Fields
the first verse decides
through Holešovice underpass back into Mother
airtight sleep of narration spawns flaring micronarratives
a thing is the ekphrasis of essence and essence is the ekphrasis of God
that is the last use of matter
by Petr Hruška
Translated from the Czech by Jonathan Bolton
That’s him.
It happens.
Selective mutism,
as learned people call it,
the sudden loss of speech.
by Pavel Kolmačka
Translated from the Czech by Nathan Fields
LIVING IN HARMONY
even with blossoming trees.
We shout, we laugh,
we carry, we lift,
we load hives, lids, pedestals,
we tighten straps
and drive in wedges.
by Aleksey Porvin
Translated from the Russian by Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
The tree must see—under your feet
a dove drops its feathers—take them;
your plumage will be white
if you choose an easy flightpath.
Late cherries—round wounds
remember what arrowhead
made them in the wet summer wind.
They remember, but you must forget.
by Olena Jennings
I remembered the scene when her lover got trampled
by an elephant. She lifted herself above the despair.
Last time I went dancing I was at the level of sky.
I felt my body unfold because I was so close
to getting what I wanted and then it folded again
by John LaPine
The Girl with No Tail has no balance.
She teeters on the brink,
eclipses precipice. Threat of falling does not
thump hard in her chest, does not live
in her throat, her tiny black throat.
She lives like danger becomes her.
She lets herself wobble against
wind, a branchless tree: thin.
by Wanda Deglane
You’re crouched outside the car, limbs folded
like a broken sun chair, spluttering and vomiting
against rocks that gut your hands like first-century nails.
I’m gripping the seat, picturing the world about to go
tumbling, frozen by gravity that wasn’t there minutes ago.
The music explodes through the speakers, tries to drown
out the sounds of your shuddering, your gasping for air,
your downhill battles that shred the still night in two.
by Slavick Ciganec
Translated from the Ukrainian by Olena Jennings
in her eyes a sign should read “swimming prohibited”
no one knows how many of those who ignored it drowned
one day you’ll want to try it
but there is one tiny problem
you must dive to the very bottom
and come face to face with the heavenly
or martyrs
by Sneha Subramanian Kanta
The airport terminal is only familiar because Nietzsche is—there he stands, with a silent yawp. Your body murmurs but you learn to extrapolate the creaks into joint movements. These scrapes of glue paper and unwanted items – unreal carpet route, real scrap. How less we require. How much we desire, how much we have, how much we keep, of it all, the body is closest.
by Sergey Lebedev
Translated from the Russian by Dmytro Kyyan
They could arrest the garden gnomes,
exterminate swallows and spiders,
roll a granite pavement in asphalt,
take out to the East
the porcelain figurines from a chest of drawers
that peeped through the window,
replace the human souls
with an overcoat cloth
art & photography
"... at the moment I froze on the spot for a few seconds, minutes or hours? I do not know exactly. And then I just thought about how to vanish in that fantastic space-time before the others come for me. "
I waited for you. I looked for you.
your sleepless nights
fragile constructions by the water’s edge.
And you go where the mood takes you…
I’m not afraid… I am free.
In a search of shapes, passages of light, curves of shadows and lines, I inevitably end up at the intersection of my most beloved motifs: nature/woman/city. Attempting to match them, while shaping it all into black and white, I try to picture with the light and shadow things which trouble, delight or inspire me.
“When I was a kid,” writes Moscow-born photographer Sergey Neamoscou, “my favorite pastime was looking through my dad’s photo albums. There were photos from his youth, his military service… Even today, I still love looking through people’s photo albums, but I always dread those last few pages, not because it’s over, no―because they are always empty.”