Translations by Pina Piccolo & Michael Golston
In English from the Ukrainian mother, housewife & poet Inna Romenska on Putin’s invasion
& from the 20th-century Austrian poet Georg Trakl
DeJe Watson, “Vera’s Lullaby” (acrylic and marker on canvas; 16 x 40” / 40.64 x 101.6 cm)
The Woman Sits Down
by Inna Romenska, trans. Pina Piccolo
The woman sits down in front of the computer, sets everything up carefully:
Kleenex, headphones, pain reliever, sleeping pill and sedative.
Watching the news today is like going out on the street in Kharkiv.
A glass of wine is also needed, if all the other stuff isn’t enough.
The woman checks the usual pages, reads the poems,
She takes off her glittering helmet, picks up the brush to smooth her feathers.
Sure, she would still like to live as she did before,
but one February morning she woke up as a Valkyrie.
This Valkyrie has a pair of wings, large and heavy as hell,
keeping up with them is hard: cleaning, oiling, getting them serviced.
They could have lifted souls and carried them into heaven,
instead, she flies off with children, medicine and, shit, even ambulances!
In short, beautiful wings, functioning, though a bit broken
Always used to protect, sometimes they don't click just right.
It’s a pity they can’t be patched up with armor plates
The woman picks up a needle, thread, makes a face and starts sewing.
The soft beep of Messenger alerts her that she got a new message — — —
The boss is angry, annoyed that once more she didn’t meet her quota.
Of course, Aso, you asshole, I disappointed you again, I'm very tired.
Sorry, but the Ragnarok is here and now, and we need them alive.
What could they be doing in your Valhalla: are they getting shit faced drunk?
They’ll tear your Asgard to pieces, stone by stone, you sure know that.
Will they keep quiet and watch dead children, ruined fields, burnt houses?
Go ahead fire me if you want, but for now, they’ll be delayed.
The woman receives a request from Mavka and replies to her friend,
who recently replaced the Gorgon and is getting useful skills.
Both dream of finally creating a unit of their own.
So they can kick all that scum out of Ukraine, send them packing to hell.
That Gorgon, before being raped, was named Circe.
Now she has a stony gaze and deadly vipers on her head.
So far, she is the one winning the fight against all those fake Perseus,
even if those bastards try to kill her, every day.
The woman transcribes all items needed and other requests, closes the files.
She already got fifteen orders from Asgard, what is she to do with them?
She thinks: "How nice: I have lost seven kilos since the end of February,
tomorrow I’ll be able to fly higher, protecting our own better. "
Trans. Note: This poem was written in Ukrainian. My English translation is from a recent Italian translation by Marina Sorina. A “Mavka” is a character from Ukrainian folklore, a kind of mermaid who lives in the woods. Girls who die before being baptized are believed in the folk tradition to be transformed into Mavkas.—PP
Sarah Porter, “Parachute” (mixed media)
***
Grodek
At evening the autumn woods
echo to gunfire, the dusky sun rolls
over golden lowlands and blue lakes;
night clutches shrieks from the broken
mouths of dying soldiers.
Spilled blood,
cold as the moon, coagulates
in a meadowland of red clouds,
home of a furious god; all roads
meander into black rot. Sister Shadow
sways through silent groves, greeting
the ghosts of heroes, their bleeding heads,
under the boughs of a starry night;
Fall’s dark flutes play quietly in the reeds.
O haughty sorrow! Today your brass altars
feed a harsh pain to the soul’s fires,
the unborn grandsons of the future.
Four poems by George Trakl, trans. Michael Golston
Humankind
Humanity totters over fiery gorges,
Drumrolls, soldiers with darkened miens,
Marching through bloody fog, iron forges,
Doubt and night in their grieving brains:
Mother Eve’s shadow, the Hunt and ruddy Gold.
Light breaks through the clouds, the evening meal.
Silence in the wine and in the bread all told.
The Twelve assemble and their number sealed.
They shriek in their sleep under olive branches;
Saint Thomas dips his hand in stigmata unstanched.
***
Trumpets
Trumpets blare under shredded willows;
Dusky children play in the leaves. A churchyard’s shudder.
Through broken maples, red flags stutter
Riders along the rye fields and empty mills.
Or: shepherds sing at night as stags tread
Into the fire ring, the grove’s holy pall.
Dancers launch themselves from a blackened wall,
Ensigns of Laughter, Madness, Trumpets, Red.
***
In the East
The winter storm’s howl mirrors
The people’s black wrath,
The violet surge of war,
Defoliated stars.
With its silver arms and broken brows,
Night beckons to dying soldiers.
Ghosts of the dead sigh under
Autumnal shadows of ash.
A wilderness of thorns encircles the city.
The moon drives terrified women
From bleeding doorsteps.
Wolves break through the gate.