Yuliya Musakovska (born in 1982) is a Ukrainian poet and translator, a member of PEN Ukraine. She is the author of five poetry collections, Exhaling, Inhaling (2010), Masks (2011), Hunting the Silence (2014), Men, Women and Children (2015), and The God of Freedom (2021). Her poems have been translated into English, German, Spanish, Lithuanian, Hebrew, Polish, and Bulgarian. Musakovska also translates Swedish poetry into Ukrainian and contemporary Ukrainian poetry into English. She is the recipient of numerous literary awards in Ukraine, including Krok Publishing House’s DICTUM Prize, the Smoloskyp Poetry Award, the Ostroh Academy Vytoky Award, the Bohdan Antonych Prize, and the Hranoslov Award.
“Fear / that stabs …”
“You see everything clearly …”
“While you are coming closer …”
“What's rattling in the sack? …”
“Fear / that stabs …”
translated by Dmitry Manin
Fear that stabs your breast like a red-hot rod, that brands both your cheeks, does not define you. Fear is like typhus that father brings home from war and before dying, passes it on to all his children. Fear is like hair that grows back after you shave your head clean and never curls anymore. Fear is like language you are forced into speaking, caught with a lure of moldy bread and gray meat; of a lump of earth fertilized with bone meal. Fear is like a stranger pressing against you spittle flying from his mouth. Fear is like a torn latex glove; a protective mask that fell from your face in a crowd. Fear is like security whose sterile jaws chew up freedom. Ask not what fear can do to you— ask what you can do to fear. So it doesn’t define you.
“You see everything clearly …”
translated by Mariya Gusev and Elena Kakwani
You see everything clearly here, in the midst of black smoke. The scepter of the dying empire pierces the sky, aiming finally at what's most precious, the most vulnerable: the inscription "children" is like a literal target mark. It aims at memory— she’s among us, ubiquitous. We pass her carefully from hand to hand, warm her in the bosom of a street jacket, our fragile, dusty, warm memory. She contains all the houses and flowerpots, books and beautiful things, contains all the people we met, their pain and joy. We cover her with our body during shelling. And exhale. When, unharmed, she appears from the rubble. In a chipped bowl, we bring her food to the bomb shelter, where the past embraces the future. We lull her to sleep to the wail of sirens, and when it dawns, release her amidst the planted crocuses. You see everything clearly, you feel this permanence. They will not separate these hands, the voices of the inflorescence; They will not break the chain of our connections, They will not break the iron domes of faith. The scepter thumps against the sky and crumbles. Even louder thumps thumps a shared heartbeat. March 21, 2022
“While you are coming closer …”
translated by Elena Mikhailik
While you are coming closer, November, * clover breaks through from under the dry leaves. Sunlight seals the eyes—and so we no longer are able to see anything. No dusting of grey on fruit trees, no paths along the river, studded with bones. No desperate inscriptions on the centuries-old walls of the lion's den. We gave our eyes to the sun for shimmering rattles and overripe fruit. Sweet juice that flows down the chin. Caresses of fiery foxes. Felt the chestnut shell in the pocket of a khaki-coloured jacket. Pricked herself—and regained the sight. Those who are about to die salute you, November. * in Ukrainian, November is листопад – literally, “leaf fall”
“What's rattling in the sack? …”
translated by Elena Mikhailik
What's rattling in the sack? Bones. My bones, but not the full count. My brother dear took out three bones, sold two at the marketplace, buried one in the garden. An apple tree will grow from that bone, every apple will have my face, saying to brother dear: "What for did you do that to me, elder brother?" Why did you kill me, take my bones out of me, sew them in with a rough tread, put them in a sack, keep them unburied for three days? Because your wife was finer than mine, your song was more resonant your land was fatter, the apple tree in your yard stood taller. Give me your land, your wife, and tie up your song with a knot across the throat. You are not my brother not an honest enemy, not a man, not a beast. A sack full of bones. Your wife will come out, bite an apple, and fall dead. Your children will come out, Take a bite— and fall down lifeless. The sun will rise to burn your house to the ground, and seed the earth with ashes. What's rattling in the sack? Apples. Sweet, oh so sweet.