Featured Poet: Marie Iljašenko
Photo by Dirk Skiba
Marie Iljašenko is a Czech poet, writer, and translator, laureate of the Tom Stoppard Prize (2023). She was born in Kyiv, Ukraine, into a family of Ukraine-Czech-Polish descent. In 1992 her family moved to the Czech Republic. She has published two books of poems Osip míří na jih (Osip Is Heading South, 2015) and Sv. Outdoor (St. Outdoor, 2019). Her poetry has been nominated for several important Central European awards. Her texts have been featured in many anthologies and translated into English, German, Spanish, Polish, Hungarian, Ukrainian, Slovenian, Romanian, and Japanese. She writes short stories, essays and columns. As an editor, she compiled an anthology of Ukrainian-Czech-Slovak reports on the beginning of the war, Chleba z minového pole (Bread from the Minefield, 2022).
We Can’t Escape Where We’re Really From
Poland has shown me its worse face
when, in a slow Intercity compartment with no power outlets or coffee,
a Polish drunk called me a Ukrainian whore.
He must’ve been clairvoyant, must’ve had a third eye,
opened perhaps by the war, or perhaps by the booze –
either way, re my origins he was absolutely sure.
In vain did I explain to him I was Czech,
in vain did I point out the train was bound for Prague,
and then eventually I shut up.
And the children lapping up soup at the station kiosk,
and an old geezer staring helplessly at the timetable,
and a mother with two babies in a bulky pram,
all were suddenly like my family,
as in a second I felt their vulnerability
and their helplessness: the war had given them over to all the drunkards of the world.
The green monoculture was passing excruciatingly slowly,
while he was busy yelling at me: You’re not a pretty Czech girl!
You’re a Ukrainian whore, I can tell, I know.
Red Forest
We were shooting at people in the green corridor,
then we dug ourselves in in the red forest.
We’ve no idea what ionising radiation is,
some of us haven’t even heard of the Chernobyl explosion.
We don’t heed the warning signs,
we go wherever we please.
We just think it strange we don’t see any squirrels or birds.
We just think it strange we suffer from nosebleeds,
that we’ve entered the red-seeing forest alive,
but are leaving it in death.
We probably just got the wrong order,
the whole operation poorly planned and poorly executed,
our generals relied on nostalgia,
on common diseases and a shared language.
The red forest expelled us, but don’t feel sorry for us
since we found the time to raid the plant
taking away curtains and electronics, kettles and china,
temporary sterility, mouth-bleeding, some kidney-bleeding.
Our bones, which had no business being here,
our bones that will glow even after death,
all our bones.
Say “Palianytsia”
My body is plump and soft, my face is round,
I used to be hops, I’ve become bread,
ready to feed and nourish, I used to be wheat,
becoming the sister of bread.
Don’t you finish my slice, lest you deprive someone of happiness,
don’t you eat me behind my friend’s back, lest you rob him of strength,
for I’m the body of God and the sun,
I’m the answer to the question posed by hunger.
I’m made of white flour, I’m a feast, I’ll feed you,
but if you’re a stranger and pretend you’re not,
if you come with evil intentions,
you’ll take me in your mouth and burn.
In war I’m no longer dough, I’m a shibboleth,
my body’s no grain beaten into flour,
nor water, nor yeast, but the sounds you cannot utter,
and I’ll find you out.
Say palianytsia,
say palianytsia,
say palianytsia
You pronounce [ts] where I’ve got a [c]
and you say [li-a, li-a] where I’ve got the soft [lya],
you don’t know the hard [y] after the [n], it’s all so unusual for you,
or the sweet soft ending in the last bite.
You’ve rolled far into the world,
you’ve rolled to a place where you have no business being.
Say palianytsia, and we’ll know who you are,
say palianytsia – and you’ll burn.
Selection from unpublished poems entitled Ukrainian Notebook
Translation by David Vichnar
Espresso
In the morning the coffee machine spouts steam like a little dragon
only from a chair can you reach an empty cup
almost like in my bedded childhood
when climbing up onto the wardrobe was the highest aim
and the greatest heroine a woman on a scooter
who doesn’t hesitate to leave her son at home to become a bar dancer
to be able to live by the sea all summer
Drops of water form a blue lagoon
don’t drink it yet wait
we all left I remember
the lake in the middle of the city full of light
and perhaps cut-off hands and feet as well
we children said and the transparent sentence
I’d do anything for you
So stay here with me a little longer
without you even that childhood was nothing
she’s dancing to this day but just the tango
she should be old now but isn’t
when you leave even time starts flowing differently
doesn’t flow condenses makes circles does miracles
does incredible things just like caffeine
The Best Translators of Comics
In March, it’s good to stick to small things:
watches and hyacinths but round ones and metal ones are best
not to undertake great endeavours don’t buy a flat or a desert
not to expect much or express much
so that you don’t start to float from mere ease
beside the first mosquitoes and glass flies
formulate sentences that fit into speech bubbles
simple not yet complex
It’s good to bake bundt cake from wind water and sugar
nothing else grows in our continental garden beds yet
to sleep as much as you can and read as little
comics are best
It’s essential to learn soap bubble science
softly blowing puff into puff
you’ll learn it from the best translator of comics
who's apparently taken holiday
who’s apparently not translating anymore
who’s apparently not living anymore
who is apparently you
Rear Window
New Earth
I’m drinking my morning coffee and I see:
a new continent has appeared on my wall,
waiting for me to give it a name.
But I’m working on future days
so that they are sweet and polished like a new Earth
during creation.
My god is from a good family
and always comes on time,
he is lacking nothing.
Arctic sun
I know all the cropping that can enlarge my window.
And all the tricks, too. But what light can be used
to develop myself out of the darkness?
I go downstairs for coffee: Are you alright? The waitress asks.
I swallowed the arctic sun yesterday, I say,
and it scorched all my fields.
A little night music
A cricket late at night in a Žižkov courtyard:
I live in an old pear tree. Its fruit falls and thunders,
it sounds like the attack of a brotherly superpower.
My body is burning, but I know it will soon cool.
By morning we’ll both fall asleep and sleep soundly,
without rebuke and without excuse.
Elder and linden live their own lives
When I’m not looking, they release bubbles to the surface
and cast golden reflections on the cold water and the glass of the teapot.
Elder and linden. I think about how much my days differ
from the days of other people. And how much they are the same.
When you’re an animal, who are you? I’m most often a crane.
With grey down and a plume,
the one that wanted to wear the Crown of the Himalayas.
Salé
The weather in Žižkov is good.
Young plastic bags have begun blossoming on the pear tree.
I wrote into the dust on the window:
Do you know what ukiyo-e is?
Someone answered me: I don’t know.
I don’t know who it could have been.
Someone must have broken into my room
and disappeared in an instant.
Anarchists are bringing the winter stuff
out of their small store:
everything unneeded will go to the needy
nothing remains.
Polygonum cuspidatum
These are the last days of the knotweed’s flowering,
like a peacock in the gardens fluffing its tail.
These are the last days when you can learn to stand
completely straight and look everyone in the eyes.
It blooms mainly along rivers and railroad tracks,
prepared to swallow the entire city. It is a white and green flame.
What does it say? Stand upright, very straight,
that’s the only way you’ll accomplish great things someday.
Selection from Sv. Outdoor, Host, 2019
Translation by Nathan Fields
Translators:
Nathan Fields studied literature and writing at universities in New York and California, and has been translating Czech literature into English for over twenty years. His work has been published in numerous literary magazines and books. His translation of Marek Šindelka’s novel Chyba (Aberrant) was selected by World Literature Today as one of the best translations of 2017. He is an editor of the literary magazine Project Plume. He teaches English and writing at Prague’s Academy of Fine Arts.
David Vichnar teaches at Charles University Prague. He is also active as an editor, publisher and translator. His translations from/into English include important works of the French, German and Anglophone avantgardes. He has authored the monographs, Joyce Against Theory (2010) and The Avant-Postman: James Joyce & Post-War Avant-garde (2023). He directs Prague Microfestival and manages Litteraria Pragensia Books and Equus Press. His articles on contemporary experimental writers as well as translations of contemporary poetry and fiction—Czech, German, French and Anglophone—have appeared in numerous journals and magazines.