Diana Der Hovanessian Prize, selected by Jean Dany Joachim
Allergy
I
These days we lived disappeared
into other days we also lived.
Greasy, bloody stains on a gravel path,
rain washed them away.
A rustling of flags
no longer brings delight or hope,
only terrifying tanks on the Maidan
on a Monday afternoon.
Days we’ve survived, like grass
in our garden: ruddy yellow, brown.
Poor garden—a mad peahen
flying nowhere, squawking about nothing.
Autumn clangs as loudly as church bells
calling crowds of fools to flock
in black,
red, blue—fliers drift from above
proclaiming new rules of the game.
II
Again, my allergy begins—
maybe to burning leaves, to the dry pollen
of chrysanthemums and last dahlias,
to the dying bunches of weeds,
or maybe it’s to that
ill-at-ease look of reed beds and bare meadows
wistful, overgrown in the village.
Yet, in the city
beggars hound the passageways
with drunk faces and runny noses.
And then there’s that tiny biting ant
born on shoes along the dirt to
apartments …
There’s one consolation:
it’ll live only until the first snow.
Conversations, queues, influenza,
the constant commotion at home,
the smell of fried onions
and shared laundry—
a child whines, the TV sings
about our freedom,
and the president flies to Minsk
in a yellow-blue plane.
The demagogues and the democrats
are all lazy and dumb—
and sometimes you want to puke
on their golden trousers,
on the gussied-up laws—
pathetic wares, glitter for sale.
Will we get to Washington?
Yes, we’ll get there someday.
III
I fear those who’ll come out of the caves
at the call of meat and circuses—I know
there’s blood there. If you must, smash
the computers or burn the library—
Better yet: all sheet music, violins,
pianos!
Oh what an orchestra
will play; and a light smile will
fall upon the bared teeth.
I fear those who’ll come out of the caves.
They have nothing to lose but their chains
of convention: “Please” and “thank you.”
“Good morning, sir.” “Good evening, ma’am.”
“After you.” “My pleasure.”
The fire’s already crackling,
the shadows dance and the Rostov sadist
sings, “Unharness your horses, lads.”
Note: “Allergy,” III: “Unharness your horses, lads,” is a line from a Ukrainian folk song about two young lovers in the garden. The Rostov sadist is Andrii Chykatylo (Andrei Chikatilo, 1936–1994), who was Ukrainian by birth. At his 1992 trial for the sexual assault and murder of over 50 women and children in the Rostov oblast of the Russian SFSR, he reportedly sang this Ukrainian folk song. He was executed in 1994.
Ali Kinsella has been translating from Ukrainian for eight years. Her published works include essays, poetry, monographs, and subtitles to various films. She holds an MA from Columbia University, where she wrote a thesis on the intersection of feminism and nationalism in small states. A former Peace Corps volunteer, Ali lived in Ukraine for nearly five years.
Dzvinia Orlowsky is a Pushcart prize poet, translator and a founding editor of Four Way Books. She is the author of six poetry collections including Bad Harvest, a 2019 Massachusetts Book Awards “Must Read” in Poetry and a recipient of a 2016 National Endowment for the Arts Literature Translation Fellowship.
Natalka Bilotserkivets has published five volumes of poetry. Her work, known for lyricism and the quiet power of despair, became a hallmark of Ukraine’s literary life of the 1980s and 1990s. The collections Allergy and Central Hotel were Books of the Year in 2000 and 2004, respectively. She lives and works in Kyiv.