Ostap Slyvynsky is a poet, essayist, and literary translator based in Lviv, Ukraine. He has published four poetry collections in Ukrainian (most recent one in 2012) as well as volumes of selected poetry in Polish (2009) and Russian (2013) translation. His poetry and essays have been translated into more than a dozen languages; his translations into Ukrainian include poetry by Czeslaw Milosz and Derek Walcott and prose by Georgi Gospodinov and Olga Tokarczuk. He teaches Polish literature and literary theory at Lviv University.
“And what shall we do about hope?...”
“We drove through a city...”
Sphere
“And what shall we do about hope?...”
And what shall we do about hope? It is like a horse— can neither leave it behind in the sand nor take it aboard the boat. Even more docile now than back when it carried us on its back, almost never asking for food. It is not its fault that we found nothing here— and now it is already time for the boat to sail. Perhaps when we set it free it will return to a home of its own? What home?
“We drove through a city...”
We drove through a city brimming with festive lights. And now when almost all light is behind us, I simply ask you: Tame for me some animal, teach me how to play with it. I’d like to become its swift-moving body, Ride blindly, singing—a drunk cyclist in a rainstorm; Swearing incoherently, he punches at his own heart, listens to it hum. I’d like to climb with it on a glistening boat deck, seek you out with my eyes, Comical like a toy volcano spewing raspberry juice. Would like to bring everything back, change slightly the angle of the sails, then speed away Under an old ghostly name, throwing joyous pearls on the shore. Instead I return and doze off, pushing my nose into a bundle of warm Cells—what a light settles on the sleepy fur; what a beauty is that into which Mundane earthly life empties itself!
Sphere
Nosebleed for some reason—was the heart again looking for ways to exit you? At first I was not understanding a thing, thought you were crying, Tried hailing a cab, the gutters guffawed, applauding me, Square coffeehouses faded away, street signs pointed to one another: Bells and fishes, golden cosmonauts, a glass of water with crumbles of candle wax, A shaken snow globe. And you inside that globe Which performs it mechanical joy.The pianola Marlene Will play an elegy of brave snow, tame the weather, and then get you hooked. My sphere full of smoke and lights, of all sorts of random music! The heart and lungs vibrate like border bridges, still warm and wet after the night— Captives of their own movement, fake clouds, straw bulls.