Cover image: Sergey Serko, “Way to God”, 2012, courtesy of the The Ukrainian painters exhibition in Padua.
the wolf hour
1
the hour between 3 am and 4 am
is called ‘the wolf hour’ in Sweden
when it is too late to fall asleep
but too early to get up
so, they stay in bed listening
to (their inner) wolves
this is how Ullmar explained it
the curfew in Kyiv is
from 8 pm till 7 am
the curfew in Kherson is
from 8 pm till 6 am
the curfew in Kharkiv is
from 4 pm till 6 am
when it is too late to die
but too early to live
so we stay in bed guessing
what are these sounds: they bombing us or
we taking down their missiles
but no one can ever explain any of this
2
in 35 years in Chornobyl Exclusion Zone
the population of wolves has increased
now a bear has been spotted here
the most dangerous of all large predators
it came here from the territory of Belarus
this is how Serhiy Hashchak, a researcher
of the fauna in the exclusion zone, explained it
this spring great fires are expected here
but the nature is able to restore itself
announced Mr. Hashchak
the pictures from camera traps show
how the fire is roaring and local inhabitants are fleeing to the west
but in a month green grass will be sprouting here
and young deer and moose will be grazing
but the time has not come yet it is still cold
the wolves gather in large packs for hunting
at the wolf hour
they will take on their thermal cameras
strong and ardent, they will go and you know what
together they will hunt down the bear
and this will be very easy to explain
March 1, 2022
Translated by the author
Revised by Rishi Dastadar
urban forest
a thread teared on the loom of trees
it is raining beads everywhere
shiny beads like the blackbird’s eyes
they fall and then get quiet
only an echo of a trill
floats where a bird fluttered
only leaves rustle
under the feet of a ranger’s ghost
who cut all the branches on the log
the lace of the birds’ songs
gets trapped in the undergrowth like in the jelly
the warm undergrowth like feathers
that cover the nut-hatch’s nest
a couple of nuthatches ignore the sirens
so does a couple of woodpigeons who go on building their nest
so they roar for some time far away
roar
and then stop
Translated by the author
trees
what’s this tree – with no bark?
she asks
and I stand there and see a person with no skin whose name everyone has forgot
if the world is reflected in language
some of its parts are blank spots on a map
like these thousands of names under our feet
so many grasses and words we’ve never heard of or the ones we’ve heard of but could never
match them with the real plants
and also the whole forest of trees’ names we don’t know
and among them trees like this one no bark no skin
there are people who know this part of map perfectly
they place nameboards that get lost in the weeds
and play with those names as if they belonged to them just because they know them
grow them together as if weaving lace from living thread
in the bark near the junctions, you can see scars
he says
and I stand there and see
bizarrely intertwined Siamese twins
these are the same as that one no bark no skin
and neither can we recall their name
Translated by the author
***
autumn begins with something trivial: keys forgotten in another city, silver coins of cough in the
throat, a Turkish cup of tea,
copper coins of water in the battery,
glass balls of rain,
I did not feel it, and it is already here, huddling like a stray cat, rubbing my legs
leaving faded leaves on jeans
only on such a rainy night there can be a knock on the balcony door, only on such a rainy night
can it be opened
but who will be behind it depends on whether the walnut tree fell asleep on its guard under the
window, whether the pines will reach the torn hem of the clouds,
and whether lightning repeats the pattern of veins on your temples.
autumn begins with something childish — it knocks on the door and runs away; I want to read
all day in bed; you are wrapped like a mummy in the damp gauze of mist —
and continues with something senile: alcohol has no effect on me, a diamond of cold pulsates in
my knees
and so again — every time — and every time this is the first topic of conversation
as if there is nothing more important than this autumn, wet as a wound under a prematurely
peeled crust
it steals airtime from work conversations, intercepts a wave of gossip, lies down like a stray cat
on the balcony, where piles of secrets should gather.
autumn drives us to the kitchen and makes us put the kettle on
autumn begins with something trivial, but grows quickly like other people’s children
a penny of winter will roll out of its cold womb, the snow will cover the mummified us, frozen
in half a word
and then no one will knock on the balcony doors in the middle of the night any more
and then there is a general risk of ceasing to exist for a while
translated by Yury Zavadsky
Ella Yevtushenko is a poet, translator and musician from Kyiv. Her first poetry collection Lichtung was published in 2016. She is a finalist of poetry contests “MRP” and “Dictum”, laureate of the contest “Smoloskyp”, participant of festivals in Ukraine and Europe. Her poems have been translated into over 10 languages and published in anthologies in Ukraine, France, the USA, the UK, Ireland, Egypt, Bosnia, as well as in magazines and at online portals all over the world. Ella translated over 25 books of prose and poetry from English and French to Ukrainian and back, including the anthology of Ukrainian poetry “24 poètes pour un pays” (éd. Bruno Doucey, France, 2022). In 2020 she founded a solo electronic&poetic musical project Thuyone. She is a co-author of the Kulturtrigger YouTube channel about culture and arts.
