Poems for Ukraine

These are poems dedicated to the children of Ukraine and their mothers, fathers and extended families. And to the brave Ukrainian soldiers, male and female, who guard them and preserve their freedom.

Epitaph for a Ukrainian Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

I agree with Mahatma Gandhi, who said that if we want to live in a better world, we will have to start with the children.

Hymn for Fallen Ukrainian Soldiers
by Michael R. Burch

Sound the awesome cannons.
Pin medals to each breast.
Attention, honor guard!
Give them a hero’s rest.

Recite their names to the heavens
Till the stars acknowledge their kin.
Then let the land they defended
Gather them in again.

While I’m a peace activist and the author of a peace plan, I am compelled to salute the men and women who defend their country so gallantly with their lives, against the forces of totalitarianism. Einstein was a pacifist, but he said that he would have enlisted, if he were young enough, to fight the Nazis.

Behold the Men
by Michael R. Burch

If ever men were brave, behold the men:
they withstood the tyrant and his bloody reign.
If ever men were brave, behold the men:
the valiant men and women of Ukraine.

Haiku for the Mothers and Children of Ukraine
by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
of one fallen star.

Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder —
the water breaks.

The sun warms
a solitary stone.
Let us abandon no one.

You astound me;
your name on my lips
remains unpronounceable.

Born into the delicate autumn,
too late to mature,
pale petals ...

Soft as daffodils fall
all the lamentations
of life’s smallest victims,
unheard ...

Crushed grapes
surrender such sweetness!
A mother’s compassion.

My footprints
so faint in the snow?
Ah yes, you lifted me.

An emu feather
still falling?
So quickly you rushed to my rescue.

The eagle sees farther
from its greater height—
a mother’s wisdom

Dry leaf flung awry:
bright butterfly,
goodbye!

Late autumn; all
the golden leaves turn black underfoot:
soot ...

We Are Here
by Michael R. Burch

“We are here.” – Volodymyr Zelensky

We are here. Were are here.
And we won’t disappear.
We are here. We are here. We are here.

We are here. Have no fear,
our position is clear.
We are here. We are here. We are here.

And yet we need help.
Will earth’s leaders just yelp?
We are here. We are here. We are here.

Our nation stands strong.
Will you choose right, or wrong?
We are here. We are here. We are here.

Now let me be clear,
Vladimir, dear:
We are here. We are here. We are here.



Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers of Ukraine

There was, in your touch, such tenderness—as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.

What songs long forgotten occur to you now—
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?

Time taught you tenderness—time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough ...
and time?—insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask—

what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?

The Ghost of Kyiv
by Michael R. Burch

“It would be better for a man to be hurled into the sea with a millstone around his neck, than for him to cause one of these little ones to stumble.” – Matthew 18:6, Mark 9:42, Luke 17:2

Terrible angel, phantom avenger ...
abandon compassion, take to the skies,
seek out the murderers of women and children,
send them to hell with relentless eyes.



Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch

It’s not that every leaf must finally fall,
it’s just that we can never catch them all.

Piercing the Shell
by Michael R. Burch

If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we’ll discover what the heart is for.

I Pray Tonight
by Michael R. Burch

for the children of Ukraine and their mothers

I pray tonight
the starry Light
might
surround you.

I pray
by day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.

I pray ere tomorrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.

Dear God!
by Taras Shevchenko
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dear God, disaster again!
Life was once calm ... serene ...
But as soon as we began to break the chains
Of bondage that enslaved us ...
The whip cracked! The serfs' blood flew!
Now, like ravenous wolves fighting over a bone,
The Imperial thugs are at each other's throats again.

Taras Hryhorovych Shevchenko (1814-1861) was also known as Kobzar Taras, or simply Kobzar ("The Bard"). The foremost Ukrainian poet of the 19th century, Shevchenko was also a playwright, writer, artist, illustrator, folklorist, ethnographer and political figure. He is considered to be the father of modern Ukrainian literature and, to some degree, the modern Ukrainian language. Shevchenko was also an outspoken champion of Ukrainian independence and a major figure in Ukraine's national revival. In 1847 he was convicted for explicitly promoting the independence of Ukraine, for writing poems in the Ukrainian language, and for ridiculing members of the Russian Imperial House. He would spend 12 years under some form of imprisonment or military conscription.



Zapovit ("Testament")
by Taras Shevchenko
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When I die, let them bury me
on some high, windy steppe,
my tomb a simple burial mound,
unnoticed and unwept.
Below me, my beloved Ukraine's
vast plains ... beyond, the shore
where the mighty Dnieper thunders
as her surging waters roar!
Then let her bear to the distant sea
the blood of all invaders,
before I rise, at last content
to leave this Earth forever.
For how, until that moment,
could I ever flee to God,
knowing my nation lives in chains,
that innocents shed blood?
Friends, free me from my grave — arise,
sundering your chains!
Water your freedom with blood spilled
by cruel tyrants' evil veins!
Then, when you're all one family,
a family of the free,
do not forget my good intent:
Remember me.

Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Ukraine

Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this—
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...

For a Ukrainian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails
when thunder howls
when hailstones scream
while winter scowls
and nights compound dark frosts with snow?
Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?

Something
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Ukraine

Something inescapable is lost—
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
and finality has swept into a corner where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

Mother’s Smile
by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers of Ukraine and their children

There never was a fonder smile
than mother’s smile, no softer touch
than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than “much.”

So more than “much,” much more than “all.”
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother’s there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger back
than father’s back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother’s tender smile
will leap and follow after you!

Dispensing Keys
by Hafiz
translation by Michael R. Burch

The imbecile
constructs cages
for everyone he knows,
while the sage
(who has to duck his head
whenever the moon glows)
keeps dispensing keys
all night long
to the beautiful, rowdy,
prison gang.

I love the wisdom and spirit of Hafiz in this subversive (pardon the pun) little poem. I can see Putin and Trump putting refugees in cages, while Hafiz goes around letting them out for a moondance! — MRB

Love in Kyiv
by Natalka Bilotserkivets, a Ukrainian poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Love is more terrible in Kyiv
than spectacular Venetian passions,
than butterflies morphing into bright tapers –
winged caterpillars bursting aflame!

Here spring has lit the chestnuts, like candles,
and we have cheap lipstick’s fruity taste,
the daring innocence of miniskirts,
and all these ill-cut coiffures.

And yet images, memories and portents still move us...
all so tragically obvious, like the latest fashion.

Here you’ll fall victim to the assassin’s stiletto,
your blood coruscating like rust
reddening a brand-new Audi in a Tartarkan alley.

Here you’ll plummet from a balcony
headlong into your decrepit little Paris,
wearing a prim white secretarial blouse.

Here you can no longer discern the weddings from the funerals,
because love in Kyiv is more terrible
than the tired slogans of the New Communism.

Phantoms emerge these inebriated nights
out of Bald Mountain, bearing
red banners and potted red geraniums.

Here you’ll die by the assassin’s stiletto:
plummet from a balcony,
tumble headlong into a brand-new Audi in a Tartarkan alley,
spiral into your decrepit little Paris,
your blood coruscating like rust
on a prim white secretarial blouse.



"Words terrify when they remain unspoken." – Lina Kostenko, translation by Michael R. Burch

Unsaid
by Lina Kostenko, a Ukrainian poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You told me “I love you” with your eyes
and your soul passed its most difficult exam;
like the tinkling bell of a mountain stream,
the unsaid remains unsaid.

Life rushed past the platform
as the station's speaker lapsed into silence:
so many words spilled by the quill!
But the unsaid remains unsaid.

Nights become dawn; days become dusk;
Fate all too often tilted the scales.
Words rose in me like the sun,
yet the unsaid remains unsaid.



Let It Be
by Lina Kostenko, a Ukrainian poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let there be light! The touch of a feather.
Let it be forever. A radiant memory!
This world is palest birch bark,
whitened in the darkness from elsewhere.

Today the snow began to fall.
Today late autumn brimmed with smoke.
Let it be bitter, dark memories of you.
Let it be light, these radiant memories!

Don't let the phone arouse your sorrow,
nor let your sadness stir with the leaves.
Let it be light, ’twas only a dream
barely brushing consciousness with its lips.



The Beggars
by Mixa Kozimirenko, a Ukrainian poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where, please tell me, should I hide my eyes
when a beggar approaches me
and my fatherland has more beggars
than anyplace else?
To cover my eyes with my hands, so as not to see,
not to hear the words ripping my soul apart?
My closed eyes cry
as the beggars walk by...
My eyes tight-shut, so as not to see them,
not to hear the words ripping my soul apart.
It is Mother Ukraine who’s weeping?
Can it be that her cry is unheard?



If the Last Rom Dies
by Mixa Kozimirenko
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If the last Rom dies,
a star would vanish above the tent,
mountains and valleys moan,
horses whinny in open fields,
thunderclouds shroud the moon,
fiddles and guitars gently weep,
giants and dwarfs mourn.

If the last Rom dies…
what trace will the Roma have left?
Ask anyone, anywhere!

The Romani soul is in their songs—look there!
In lands near and far, everywhere,
Romani songs hearten human hearts.

Although their own road to happiness is hard,
they respect Freedom as well as God,
while searching for their heaven on earth.
But whether they’ve found it—ask them!

Mixa Kozimirenko (1938-2005) was a Ukrainian Romani Gypsy poet, philosopher, educator, music teacher, composer and Holocaust survivor. He was a prominent figure and highly regarded in Ukrainian literary circles.