Chickens Don't Fly
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.
"At the Turn" and other poems
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
"The Siege of Hades"
by Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
Meticulous Demeter’s revenge was slow but vicious;
she bred innumerable souls to choke the underworld
and laced them with her own ethos; her triumphs
sickened its entombed monarch, and soon he was impotent
"Empire" and other poems
by Snežana Žabić
There are life forms who slash the cheek
of a refugee, lay eggs like lizards, drown in their siestas.
Immigrants talk about papers, Dubai, Cambodia,
Singapore, migrate pleasure and work.
A cycle of poems about the War
by Khrystia Vengryniuk
Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan
When you make a shot where the snow lies now,
I have my veins twitch and I wake up.
I screw up my eyes.
I fly away.
Imagining HOW you are standing there.
"Soldier" and other poems
by Oksana Lutsyshyna
Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan
it seems they sleep on the ground, in the ground
he gets out of the ground in the morning
to say some words
but he forgot the words because they are too long
"Histology" and other poems
by Andriy Tuzhykov
Translated from the Ukrainian by Dmytro Kyyan
the square
named after you
is made of pixels
is rendering
is in mitosis
with the square named after me
The Yellow Chinese Jeep
by Serhiy Zhadan
Translated from the Ukrainian by Hanna Leliv and Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
The story I’m about to tell could’ve only happened at Christmas time. It has all the traditional elements of a Christmas story: the Magi, the messengers, the angels singing in a pomegranate-red December sky, and a sense of mystery living inside every one of us. If you listen carefully, this story will, if anything, seem to imply that mystery in its pristine form always exists somewhere around us. All you have to do is stop acting like you’re above it all and try to feel its presence.
A Room for Sorrow
by Andriy Lyubka
Translated from the Ukrainian by Reilly Costigan-Humes and Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
From the outside, his building looked absolutely ordinary. The old, two-story stone structure had been divided into four apartments. His was on the first floor of the right wing. The neighbors didn’t exactly know what he did all day. Perhaps they noticed that he only left the building on rare occasions and almost never in the morning, which meant he didn’t work or worked from home.
Losers Want More
by Tanja Maljartschuk
Translated from the Ukrainian by Zenia Tompkins
A certain man lived up to age 33 in peace and harmony. He had a job, he had a family, he had relatives and acquaintances. He had two good friends with whom he met up once a month. Together they would put back four mugs of beer each, they’d talk over their jobs, families, relatives and acquaintances, then would part ways, happy and tipsy, to their respective homes to sleep.
Happy Naked People
by Kateryna Babkina
Translated from the Ukrainian by Hanna Leliv
I bought those photographs – the entire album – for 70 euros at Place du Jeu de Balle in Brussels. Roma always said I didn’t know the value of money, and he was probably right. I don’t like flea markets; I prefer new, nice stuff. Roma’s the complete opposite, though.
The State of Culture in the Occupied Donbas, or How I Became an Occupier
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.
All Empires Collapse
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.
The Festival
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.
To Tanja
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.
The Weight of Grace
by Isabel Anreus
Eddy’s beat-up Converses are resting against the wheel of the car and his eyes are staring at the worn interior vinyl ceiling. The time on the dashboard reads 12:15 pm. He’s late, typical. The old priest wanted Eddy to pick him up at 12:00 pm sharp.
Middlesbrough Meteorite
by Ian Robinson
James Farley worked on the railways. He was a plate layer, and he would go out with others like him, and a Permanent Way Inspector to keep the track and land around it in working order. His job mostly involved muscle work, low-level engineering; it was the Inspector who did all of the paperwork.
Circle
by Danica Borisavljevic
First, second, third, I just started and I’m already upset by numbers that always go in perfect order, she didn’t come today, she didn't come yesterday, but yesterday I caught a glimpse of her in a ray of sunshine dancing in a glass of water, today there is no sun and there is no her...
