***
And the sky unwashed and
the drowsy waves; and
along the coast far-off
as if drunk, the reeds buckle
without wind. Jesus Christ!
Am I going to be trapped for long
in this unlocked prison, wasteland at the edge
of this monstrous sea,
nauseated globe? Speechless,
shut up and bent as if alive
in the steppe: the yellowing grass:
it doesn’t want to speak the truth,
but there’s no one else to ask.
late 1848, Kos-Aral, Kazakhstan
N. N.
Sun submerges, mountains charcoal,
a bird hushes, the fields go mute.
People revel finding rest but
I watch . . . and from my chest I fly
through a darkened grove to Ukraine.
Flying, I fly, with a poem I make up,
and it seems my heart unclamps.
Fields blacken and woods and peaks,
and stars surface in the still blue sky.
O stars! stars—and tears
drop. Have you risen in Ukraine yet?
Are brown eyes looking for you
against the sky? Do they overlook?
If they forgot or fell asleep, at least
they won’t hear about the life I had to live.
1847, Orsk serf outpost, Russia
In the Casemate
III
It’s all the same if
I settle in Ukraine or not.
If someone finds or forgets
me in the desert snow
in some other country—
doesn’t matter to me.
In slavery I grew
around strangers
and your folks
un-cried for. In slavery
you cry, die. Everything taken
up with you, don’t leave
light footprints
in this radiant country—
on ground that is not yours.
And the dad won’t reminisce
with the son. Won’t
tell the son, pray, pray,
for Ukraine was bludgeoned
down at some point.
I don’t care if the son prays.
But it’s not the same to me,
as vicious people lull
Ukraine to sleep slyly
and in a fire, kidnapped,
she’s woken up on fire . . . Ah,
it’s not all the same to me.
April 17–May 19, 1847, St. Petersburg, Russia
***
My thinking, my thoughts,
it’s so hard with you.
Why do you stand on the page
in grim rows? Why
didn’t the wind blow you apart
across the steppe like specks
of grain. Why didn’t woe
rock you past rest
like your kids?
Because disaster birthed you for laughs,
drizzled out tears . . . Why didn’t they dunk you?
Take you out to sea, scrub you out in a field?
You didn’t ask people, “what’s hurting in me.”
Didn’t ask “why curse fate,
why’s the world weary.” Didn’t say
“there’s no point,” while grinning.
My blossoms, my kids!
Why did I love you and mind you?
Will the heart drain over the whole globe’s curve
as I did with you? Maybe you can guess.
Maybe you’ll find yourself
a young girl’s sympathy, her umber eyes
to cry over your lines—
I don’t want to anymore.
A single tear from burnt umber eyes,
and—goddamn!
My thoughts, my poems,
it’s so hard with you.
Over brown eyes, black
brows . . . the soul splintered and laughed,
pouring over with speech,
brimmed as if capable
over inky nights, over
a green embroidered grove,
over tender lovers.
Over steppe and gravemounds
across Ukraine,
the heart wilted not wanting
to sing abroad.
Didn’t want to in snow,
in pine forests, with Kozak hordes
and hetmen’s staff and banner
gathered for summits.
Let Kozak ghosts
in Ukraine soar wide, gleeful
from country to country.
Like freedom evolving,
Dnipro’s sweeping—ocean,
steppe and steppe, rapids roar,
and gravemounds—mountains.
. . .
1840, St. Petersburg, Russia
Will and Testament
When I die bury me
in the middle of the steppe
of my Ukraine. So I can seize
broad the broadback field and
Dnipro, twisting, so
I can see and hear it roar,
roaring, carrying
thieves’ blood
to the ocean. Then I’ll toss
the fields and mountains and me
and burn them all like prayers.
I won’t know God till then.
Stash me away then stand,
split your chains and spatter
the soil with blood and fury,
having your body back. Now
in our vast family, the free
one, the new one,
don’t forget to remember me
in good-willed words,
a word unangered,
quiet.
December 25, 1845, Pereyaslav, Ukraine
from Kobzar
Taras Shevchenko
translated from the Ukrainian by Daniel Moysaenko
Read the original in Ukrainian
Taras Shevchenko is considered Ukraine’s foundational poet. He was born into serfdom, became an orphan at eleven years old, and purchased his freedom at twenty-four with proceeds from a portrait. His first collection, Kobzar, was published in 1840 (expanded in 1844 and 1860), and was followed by other award-winning works. Among his circle were Ira Aldridge, F. P. Tolstoy, and Vasily Zhukovsky. In 1847 Tsar Nicholas I prosecuted Shevchenko for anti-imperialist writings and exiled him to outposts near the Ural Mountains and Caspian Sea. Though denied pencil and paper, he continued composing. Pardoned a decade later, Shevchenko was arrested again and died in 1861. His remains are marked by a statue overlooking the Dnipro River. Monuments to Shevchenko appear in more than 125 other countries, including Brazil, Canada, the Czech Republic, France, Italy, Russia, and the United States. His writing was published in 110 editions during the Soviet era, though an English translation of the whole Kobzar did not appear until 2013. His range, from lyricism to drama and romanticism to satire, was highly influential. Shevchenko is credited with strengthening Ukrainian national consciousness after centuries of occupation through his establishment of the modern Ukrainian language as literarily and politically valuable. Beyond being an icon, though, he is a poet of surprise and nuance. His syntactical and musical innovation is especially difficult to reproduce in English, and many past translations have sacrificed complexity of meaning to mimic rhyme and meter. A more holistic and radical translation serves Shevchenko’s aim better. How can I retain his musicality, leaps, and spectrum of tangled emotion? It’s a pursuit that is important. His poetry of slavery, imprisonment, and violence stands up to time, to shifting aesthetics. Having written during nineteenth-century aggression and propaganda in Ukraine, Shevchenko remains relevant in the nation’s current climate and continued struggles.
Taras Shevchenko was born into serfdom in 1814 in Moryntsi. He was a political dissident, an artist, and is now considered the national poet of Ukraine. His poetry collection Kobzar has appeared in hundreds of editions with poems translated into 147 languages, including Bengali, Chinese, English, French, German, Japanese, Polish, Russian, and Spanish. After a decade in remote penal colonies, Shevchenko returned to Ukraine before being imprisoned again. He died in St. Petersburg in 1861 and is buried by the Dnipro River in Kaniv, Ukraine.
Daniel Moysaenko is a second-generation Ukrainian-American poet. He holds an M.F.A. from the University of Massachusetts Amherst and is the author of the chapbook New Animal (H_NGM_N Books, 2015). His poetry, prose, and translation have appeared in Columbia Poetry Review, The Journal, Mid-American Review, Old English Newsletter, Oversound, Pleiades, Rain Taxi, Tupelo Quarterly, The Volta, and other journals. He is pursuing a Ph.D. in poetry at Florida State University.
