Ihor Pavlyuk

Translated by Steve Komarnyckyj

from Polissya

* * *

The morose wind respires through the pine,

I have abandoned you, my Polissyan country,

Dewy footsteps in the nightingale grove

Left by her, whom I drove from the village to this greenery,

White cherry blossom and blue of cornflowers...

Dove soft lakes, I am your younger son,

Here I gathered berries, tore the poppies’ pink blooms,

Wished my fortune from heaven, a zodiac sign.

As grandma told me once in a story:

“Fortune, though it comes from God, is earned by work,

The years, like geese, never turn back...”

I am the auburn brother of willow coils,

Longing to return with autumn to our orchard,

As the crane leads her young heavenward.

Scattering sorrow in the shadow of her wing,

Catching fire from the stars utterly burn.


,   :

’  —  ,

,      .


,    .

,   ,



« —   ,  —  ,

,  ,   ...»





—   .


The river, like time, flows imperceptibly...

Forests murmur, continuing the song.

Jealous of fate, I yearn endlessly,

Striving to appear to Polissya in dreams

Where the white orchard blessed me.

Among mushrooms’ blue light...

What is there to say?

The autumnal maple of my head murmurs

Above Grandfather slain for his carefulness.

Dryads whisper to the devil in me,

Whisper to fear for the right to be beaten.

Stars live in the depths of the sea...

Is it not all the same to burn or drown?

The river, like time, flows imperceptibly...

I do not know where to, but I know where from,

From the country felled with a sword,

Eternity laughing —

Like God’s bone.

Ihor Pavlyuk © 2014

Trns. Steve Komarnyckyj © 2014

Знову Вдома

Я знов там був душею і думками...

Свята бабуся молиться Землі.

Як очі — небо.

І сміється камінь.

І дід лежить під берегом, як хліб.

Вогонь помер.

В очах відбитий Місяць...

Наш Бог живе у церкві, як в тюрмі.

Мисливським рогом згадує Полісся

Усе, що у галактик на умі.

Дорога-промінь в соснах поламалась.

Русява шишка впала в тінь свою.

Мов тиша, бродить привид князя Мала.

Я бачу, а сміятися боюсь.

Сліпа хатина.

Скошений чорнобиль.

Тоненький вітер — сни очеретів.

А час іде.

Нічого час не робить.

Але ж, погляньте, — ліс осиротів.

Але ж почуйте: мохом, як морозом,

Заріс Перун.

І коні не іржуть.

А час пішов...

Жовтіють верболози.

Все людство спотикнулось об межу.

Вагітних мало.

Весни не солодкі.

Ніхто себе не вміє обмануть.

Діди весняно ходять на колодки

Мовчати в душу яко в таїну.

Через вогонь зростається залізо.

Через сльозу...

Ох, що через сльозу!..

Тут рейки вже.

А я все древнім лісом

Русалку залоскочену несу.

Дрімучий світ —

І раптом: добре й легко.

At Home Again

Again I was there with my spirits and thoughts...

Sacred grandmother praying to the earth.

Eyes blue as heaven

And the stone laughing.

Grandfather laid beneath the riverbank like bread.

The fire has died,

The moon is reflected in my eyes...

Our God lives in church as in a jail,

Polissya recollected in the hunting horn’s call

Everything in the galaxies’ minds.

The roads of sun rays splinter among pines.

The auburn pinecone falls into its shadow.

The apparition of Prince Mal roams like quietness.

I see him but am afraid to laugh.

The blind windows of a house.

Sheaves of wormwood.

The slender wind, the dream of reeds.

Time passes,

Time itself does nothing

But look on the forest now orphaned.

But hear how moss encrusts Perun

Like frost.

Silent are the horses.

And time passes...

The osiers turn yellow,

All of humanity strikes against the boundary.

Pregnancies decrease,

Spring is denuded of its sweetness.

Nobody can deceive themselves.

Grandfathers become as the young,

Silence secreted in their spirits.

Iron grows, fuses with fire,

Because of a tear...

A tear.

The railway now runs here

And I am the ancient forest,

Bearing the tickled Rusalka from the water.

A dreaming world —

Suddenly things are good and easy

It is simpler thus...

* * *

І просто так...

Колиска і крило.

Ми всі ще — час.

Ми близько і далеко.

Ми любим біль.

Нас довго не було.

* * *

A cradle and a wing.

We ourselves are time.

We are both near and far,

We love pain.

We have not long been here.

© Ihor Pavlyuk 2014

© Translated by Steve Komarnyckyj 2014

All excerpted from A Flight Over the Black Sea –Selected Poems of Ihor Pavlyuk (trans. S. Komarnyckji, Waterloo Press, 2014)