Color FilmAs if from darkness, from gloom, from nothing —this moment is sewn through us like a thread —from above our shoulders — from primeval night —a shining river. A flying light.Onto the screen, onto a white calm,onto a cloth, onto the ground of spatial fields,it flies through the eyeless dark,it's as voluminous as seed or salt.And in this theater, where light's been banished,where even streetlight fades away completely,other light channels vibrate,and reflections wander through the eye.The curtains open up — (...) the wings of a gate.The screen shifts our eyes and soulsso that we reach new perspectives,blown by the wind into the changingof colors, landscapes, rooms,we touch fire, earth, water.But no! Not those! And not like that!There's a wall here, the screen's always a wall.So, when the shades are opened and it's over,daylight pours through the aisles,we walk as if from underground corridors,we reach for cigarettes in our pockets.We exit like a flood, like a tide,and start talking again.O reality, blinding and sublime!We learn to love. We learn to see.StanzasThose years are slowly fading.Our house was by the railroad stationwhere engines covered in soot hammeredand invisible locomotives roared at night.Pedestrians passed by our porch,their moods dependent on loveand weather, coats and sorrowscarried over their shoulders, invisibleswords drawn but hesitant — as if awaitingtournament trumpets to launch their lives.The acacia (the one that was cut down later)grew according to a centuries-long spanof rain and sun and, like a lively banner,the windows reflected its green flash.And there was lilac, a skinny creature,diminished from the leaves to the roots.But once a year it flushed numb madlyand flourished although it was in pain.(It's worth mentioning the elderberry —dense, aromatic, and luminous,and how, after trembling on the bush,a rainbow surfaced through the drizzle.)Those lands were also full of winter —Christmassy and audacious, like an invasion,and a piercing whirlwind flew inthrough cold doorways and frozen windows.And in the lanterns oranges burned,buckets clanking through the morning,snow trampled after a blizzard,brown brick ovens roaring inside houses...Those years are fading like those legends,but who will weave us sweeter memories?Elegy for the SixtiesSummer, the smell of a soccer ball, elderberry, currant,couples made out in the evening bushes,and when the twilight descended beyond the river,the stony sidewalks smelled of warm rain.The soccer ball flew over antennas and linden trees,its body leather and cosmic.From grape-covered arbors, with pubescent sobs,songs of the prodigy Robertino spread through the world.The night thickened instantly, the ball meltedin the darkness, lamps lit up in the orchards and porches,a mysterious depth opened in a treetop,the shadows on the faded curtains spoke.The ball never came back: disappeared in the distance.Frogs croaked from neglected fountainsin the park where there were dances every night,where a saxophone wheezed, where they carried knives.The ball remained in the air, and the years unfoldedlike sandy seas, like salty deserts,and spooky carousels horrendously circledand creaked for us, as in a dream, until morning.The Museum of AntiquitiesHow the two of us walkthe cramped labyrinths of an old house!...Tapestries and trumpetsglorify an unknown couple,as if seeingour conspiracy:every toucha warm flash.And then again and againwe passin the mirrors.The clock with blazonsindicates, as always, it's two,and sneaking after usmaybe anguish, maybe a fugue...Passing portraitsand palanquinsan echo of footstepswalks with us.We disappeared somewhere for a long time(for two hundred years?For three hundred?).And when it gets dark,from unheated rooms(I seem to have behaved well,I did nothing wrong),into hot neon lightswe return forever.I carry you in my hand,and life is so vast... (shrink)

This brief essay introduces the work of three contemporary Ukrainian writers whose poems appear here in English translation. The introduction situates their work in the context of modernist and contemporary Ukrainian poetry as well as in the context of Russian invasions of Ukraine in 2022 and 2014.

Anton, thirty-two,his profile indicates that he lives with his parents.He's Orthodox, though he never went to church,has a university degree, studied English.He worked as a tattoo artist and had his own style,if you can say that of a tattoo artist.Many locals felthis skillful hands and sharp needle.When it all began, he talked a lotabout politics and history, started attending the demonstrations,picked quarrels with his friends.Friends felt insulted, clients started disappearing.They were afraid, didn't understand, left the city.You feel a person best (...) when you touch him with a needle.A needle stings, a needle sutures. Under its warmmetal you sense the complaisant canvas of women'sskin and the light rigid tarpaulinof men's skin. You penetrate someone'smembrane, you let velvetdrops of blood out of the body, you pierce and pierce and pierceangels’ wings onto the obedient surface of the world.You, tattoo artist, pierce and pierce tattoos, for we are calledto fill this world with sense, fill itwith colors. You, tattoo artist, you pierce thiscover onto our souls and diseases—what we live for and what we die for.Someone told me he was shot at a roadblock,in the morning, he was armed, it happened very quickly—no one really knows what happened.He's buried in a mass grave—they're all buried this way.His personal belongings were returned to his parents.No one has even made any changes to his profile.The time will come when some assholewill write heroic poems about this.The time will come when some assholewill say it's impossible to write about it at all. (shrink)

In the course of the past two decades, the city of Lviv has enjoyed close attention as well as a “close reading” in literary and scholarly texts on the city. This attention fits easily into two categories: (a) scholars producing academic studies on the city and (b) classical literary works on the city, composed in various languages, finally becoming available to a broader readership through translation into English. The book under discussion falls into the second category.1 It must be pointed (...) out right away that this is an unusual book—a truly successful combination of two essays—that should be rewarded with proper attention. Under one cover, the reader has the opportunity to enjoy two pieces that are linked together by the image of the city of Lviv. The first is an elegiac essay, Mój Lwów (My Lviv), authored by Polish writer Józef Wittlin. (This first English-language translation is by Antonina Lloyd-Jones.) The second essay is from post‑2010s Lviv by internationally-recognized British author Philippe Sands; it uses Wittlin’s work as a springboard for Sands’ own explorations of the city, or of what is left of the city from that period, mixed with a personal narrative. (shrink)