I am delighted to say that I will be teaching another course at The Poetry School in Summer 2024. It will cover alternative histories and not be focused on Ukraine per se although but there will be some Ukrainian content relevant to the theme- what is it about? Some of greatest poetry in English has used an imagined, alternative history whether it be King Lear or Paradise Lost or Crow or Geoffrey Hill- the course will serve up samples of such work and discuss the creation of imaginary pasts easing you gently into creating your own imagined histories through writing exercises. I hope that this will help you write a poetry that can face the craziness of the present moment. Here is the link, please book early to avoid disappointment, and I hope to see you in May!:

https://poetryschool.com/courses/writing-alternative-poetic-histories-summer-2024/

Best Wishes

Steve

Greetings to Myroslav Herasymovych, and to Stephen Komarnyckyj,
your translator and ferryman to your song,
to the news you bring, from your nighttime path
past the guard, the hangar, and the broken wall,
past the compound for the decommissioned military trucks,
past the dog, drinking in the mudpuddle and barking into dark.
Ferryman to the news you give us of the trees, of the poplars that night, shadowy figures
with feet of clay, they are Sphinxes you tell us, with no riddle.
What is a riddle without its Sphinx? Does it circle ragged and black as smoke,
visitation of trouble?
Greetings Myroslav Herasymovych, from our inland sea,
where the poplars here also stand tall, they whisper like children
at the far end of the playground, they lean and conspire across each others’ arms.
Blow! you invite us, Blow into me, sound in me the flute of poetry!
We blow into you Myroslav Herasymovych, our breath crosses your bottle’s neck.
It reaches us! Your sound! Your poetry voice!
It makes a sad note.
The breeze that blows here comes off the lake
a Great Lake, we say, and it is great, it is deep and wide, its water cold and sweet –
Lake Ontario and its four sister Great Lakes; Huron, Michigan, Erie, and Superior
greatest of them all, storied by ice.
Allow me to tell you the sounds I hear now:
a guitar from the park amplified on the air,
a robin rising singing from the bowl of water,
a young man and woman on the sidewalk, talking.
To know a land well is to love it, to love it is to fear its loss.
Your bottle, your poetry-song is vivid with self-talk, with glances fearful to the future,
with grief-full gaze at what’s gone, how many deaths, how many tears into a pillow,
vivid your bottle with half-wakeful blear at the now.
Where are you now Myroslav Herasymovych?
Do trees stand where you are? Do you hear the poplars sigh?
What sounds wash upon you? What small breeze do you feel?

On the 1st of July 2023

Gessler’s Hat    marie papier

here is a poem i wrote about a baillif torturing a small community in the heart of what was then the nucleus of Switzerland

Unfortunately the body of Volodymyr Vakulenko, a Ukrainian poet and children’s writer, has been found in one of the mass graves left by the Russian occupiers after they fled.  He was buried along with 400 other victims in a site at Izium in Kharkiv region and his corpse has just been identified by DNA testing. His loss will keenly be felt by his friends and family but should also be remembered by poets world wide, as should the Executed Renaissance, that generation of Ukrainian poets destroyed by Stalin’s butchers last century.

Best Wishes

Steve

Audrey Ardern-Jones has tweaked her poem a little so here is the new improved version.

I hope you enjoy reading it and happy writing

Best Wishes

Steve

Testament
(after the poet Taras Shevchenko)

I’ve seen the gold-domed monasteries
in Kyiv’s centre and I’ve bowed my head
listening to the earth voices of monks
in black with beards and hats chanting
prayers and singing psalms – one day
I’ll return to kneel at Shevchenko’s tomb
bury all thoughts in poetry, in honey & hope

I’ll soak myself deep under waters in the Dnipro River
feel the freshness of fish floating over my face
swallow mouthfuls of a beautiful river

I’m angry at the brutality of Putin’s men
the hurt of innocents, the exodus of lives
birds wait, brood in the freeze of night
waves of Russian drones strike the sleeping cities
Zelensky warns ‘when you attack us you will see our faces’
like Taras, the people never give up
marigold-sunflowers in pouring rain, gain strength, live on

bury all thoughts in poetry, in honey & hope
swallow mouthfuls of a beautiful river
marigold-sunflowers in pouring rain, gain strength, live on

Dear All

I am delighted to say that one of the Stanzas for Ukraine blogs has been republished by the PEN Ukraine site in what I consider an honour for the series. You can read it on the link here

The original publication complete with an Invitation to Write from Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese is available here–

I hope to see some more of your poems in response to the series soon.

Best Wishes

Steve

Testament

(after the poet Taras Shevchenko)

I’ve seen the gold-domed monasteries

in Kyiv’s centre and I’ve bowed my head

listening to the earth voices of monks

in black with beards and hats chanting

prayers and singing psalms – one day

I’ll return to kneel at Shevchenko’s tomb

bury all thoughts in poetry, in honey & hope

I’ll soak myself deep under waters in the Dnipro River

feel the freshness of fish floating over my face

swallow mouthfuls of a beautiful river

I’m angry at the brutality of Putin’s men

the hurt of innocents, the exodus of lives

birds wait, brood in the freeze of night

waves of Russian drones strike the sleeping cities

Zelensky warns ‘when you attack us you will see our faces’

like Taras, the people never give up

marigold-sunflowers in pouring rain, gain strength, live on

bury all thoughts in poetry, in honey & hope

swallow mouthfuls of a beautiful river

marigold-sunflowers in pouring rain, gain strength, live on

What

Is it but the trumpet’s snarl as in a poem
Rush torches picking out the rugged stone
The sound carries from another room
For the air is full of comfortless noise
Let her bear the unspilled milk of her dress
Or be borne the way a ship is buoyed
By the moon’s slow uplift or the gulf stream
Levitating the Atlantic’s waters though I am
Unmade the boy curled in a wolf skin
Its blood still keeping him warm in forests
Where the snows come and the barn owl
Winnows the stars with its wings.

I just thought I would share this beautiful music by Leleka… as an example of the Ukrainian culture Moscow sadly wants to destroy

Best Wishes

Steve

I am sorry I haven’t been here for a while- I have missed several of your poems which I will read with pleasure. Please keep checking out the series and encouraging others to join our group. I am hoping that a book/anthology might evolve out of our collective writing

Best Wishes

Steve

https://www.whitechalkofdays.com/

Portrait of my Grandmother as a Wardrobe

Love’s Arrow     let me know if you can’t open it – i may have forgotten some crucial element.

Ukrainian Village_Jarrod Benson

I am enjoying reading the poems posted so far – terrific work- and wanted to thank you for your interest in this project and in Ukraine. It means a lot to me and to the poets and other Ukrainians at this time. Your voice and your poetry matters now to a country that faces the risk of erasure.

Best Wishes

Steve

Dark choral – Wanda O’Connor

This Dance

please let me know if i have downloaded it correctly this time. thank you.   Marie

with my continuous prayer for humanity freedom and love.

 Dance