Posts by Marina Eskina

Translation Tuesday: “The Snowman’s Son” by Aleksandr Kabanov

I also am a snowman’s son, despoiled of hearing and sight

This Translation Tuesday, we deliver unflinching poetry from Ukraine that sheds cold light on the child victims of the Russian invasion. On translating Aleksandr Kabanov’s pioneering, at-times enigmatic style, translator Marina Eskina writes: “I chose ‘The Snowman’s Son’ for its expressiveness, force, and, last but not least, because it is more translatable. It includes Biblical references with some overtones from the Russian classical poet Aleksandr Pushkin’s famous poem The Prophet which in turn is an allusion to the scene from the Book of Isaiah. My goal as a translator was to preserve these references and allusions without ruining author’s stylistics. Such close reading and search for meanings brought me closer to deciphering Kabanov’s metaphorical universe.” 

The Snowman’s Son

The snow of war that flies askew
ignoring all the rules,
it fiercely pierces us through and through
but partly stays the course.

Snow rested the seventh useless wing
on earth’s frozen spine,
the other luckier six it brought
underground to his son.

There, underground, the rink of ice
glitters and melts with the laughs
of kids killed casually by war:
let’s mold them a dad of snow.

But death is eerily cunning,
it swaps the crown for a pail—
amidst the hasty castling—
a carrot for the cross and nails.

READ MORE…

We Stand With Ukraine: “Life’s More Enduring Than War” by Irina Ivanchenko

As the war in Ukraine continues, our new column shows that the world stands with Ukraine.

In our fourth installment of this new weekly column, we collect the works of writers around the world in response to the ongoing war in Ukrainetexts of compassion, of endurance, of commemoration, and of reaching outward. This poem expresses the resilience of both the art of poetry and the Ukrainian people in the face of violence.

Life’s More Enduring Than War

When the water runs out,
light fades, frost falls, and the
firmament freezes over,
we won’t stoop to prose.

Тhe grasses, dry and stiff,
have not yet grown above us.
Until the words run out,
we’ll speak in verses

of those who are far and near,
and say that we’re one and loved,
above the Bug, the Vorskla, the Dnieper,
in Warsaw, Rome, and Prague.

When all the words run out,
in bird language, we’ll proclaim,
in one universal roll call
our homeland is alive.

Life’s more enduring than war,
long-lasting, sacrosanct.
We’re all her children, and while
she lives, we won’t be orphaned. READ MORE…