inspirations
In May of 1992 I passed my high school finals and I went for vacation to Luck in Ukraine. There, the Polish, German and Ukrainian youth were helping to renovate churches of various denominations. Before going home each participant were given a present from the local project coordinatiors – an album entitled ‘Resin’ in which the beauty of western Ukraine lands was rendered. This book praises nature, people and places in two ways. Dmytro Pavlychko added his poetic commentary to the charming photos of Vasil Pilipyuk.
I have felt in love with this present from the very first touch, look and reading. Text was printed in three languages: Ukrainian, Russian and English. Russian was the only language I knew good enough to read and appreciate beauty of the book. In time with a dictionary I translated the book word by word and after many, many years I forged my favourite passages into haiku.
‘As a boy, I would often go with my father to cut firewood in the Smerechyna forest.
- Daddy, what’s that flowing from the tree?
- That’s the tree’s soul. The sap of life!
The resin shone on the black bark like a bunch of slightly squashed grapes. I wanted to tear it off, but when I tried, the resin caught hold of my hands and sleeves, and stuck to every part of my clothes, as if it wanted to engulf my whole being. With awe I watched it trickling down in reddish drops and later, as if challenging the law of gravitation, shrinking back to the cut from which it had flowed.
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And do people have something like that?
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Yes, they do. It’s not the red stuff in our veins. The sap of life in people is what shines in their souls and gives them the gift of speech. Your mother and your native land, blue skies and songs, all that you love, this is your sap of life, your life blood.
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But can it bleed dry, daddy?
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It can. But this never happens to those who are good!’
Dmytro Pavlychko /translated by O.B.Sandakova/
resin drops cluster
on an old bench in orchard
a mug of honey
Aleksandra Buchaniec-Bartczak /translated by A. Dąbrowska/
‘Every time I hear Hutsul music I find myself at a wedding feast, the one where at just five years old, I realized that the lively songs of Kolomiya and my blood were one. I got under the feet of the boys, who were dancing the Arkan, as I tried not to miss a single step. And I joined in the ‘circle’, which, as was usual in Stopchativ, was danced at such a speed that the wind rose. The ‘circle’ turned faster and I flew out of the barn like the husks from a winnowing mill.
Still I returned and stood at my mother’s side, holding on to her, as if fearing that next time I would be blown far up into the sky and never be brought back to earth. And my mother, so young and pretty, was waiting for the fellows to ask her to dance. She drew me aside, beckoned a little girl and told us to practise a Hutsul dance. We obeyed her command enthusiastically.
Dmytro Pavlychko /translated by O.B.Sandakova/
a country wedding
the last of still dancing guests
put out the lanterns
Aleksandra Buchaniec-Bartczak /translated by A. Dąbrowska/
‘The fine linen was being bleached on the gravel banks of the Lyuchka River. Over hundreds of years women had perfected their skill so that the linen shone like the sun. The lengths of cloth resembled narrow fields of ripe oats. But I would compare them to the high windows of a sun-lit skyscraper: they positively dazzled you. When the day drew to a close, having folded their radiant pieces of cloth, the housewives started for home, looking like some mysterious columns of fire.
My mother kept several rolls of such cloth in a trunk. They were her creation and her pride. Every night I saw the narrow beams of white light shining between the wooden slats. I grew up wearing shirts of the sun-fed linen, and I felt its warmth even in the bitter cold. When my mother passed away we unlocked the chest. The snow-white pieces of linen flew up into the air. So that the light rose out of the ashes.’
Dmytro Pavlychko /translated by O.B.Sandakova/
mother’s wooden trunk
the white of cloth in the sun
late in winter blinds
Aleksandra Buchaniec-Bartczak /translated by A. Dąbrowska/
The storm hung from the mountains like the black and white spinning wool hanging from the rafters in our hut. I had planned to go out to sing carols round in the neighbourhood, but by morning all the roads were under a thick layer of snow.
Foiled were my plans! Hot tears welled up in my eyes and a lump formed in my throat. My father was clearing the snow; cutting curved paths through the drifts to the cattle shed and the stable.
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Don’t cry – said mother.
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I’m not crying – I answered in a voice so full of tears you could have wrung it out like a wet sponge.
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Why don’t you go and sing carols to the foal and the cow and the calf, and I’ll pay you.
Mother knew that I wanted to earn some money for school books by carol singing round the neighbourhood. And I went to the foal and all the other animals and sang a carol to every living soul. Then mother took some change she had put by for a rainy day and gave it to me.
Dmytro Pavlychko /translated by O.B.Sandakova/
eye-blinding blizzard
only for horses and calfs
Christmas carolling
Aleksandra Buchaniec-Bartczak /translated by A. Dąbrowska/