Dmytro Chystiak, Ukraine A poem

Born in 1987, Dmytro Chystiak is a Ukrainian-speaking, French-speaking and Russian-speaking poet, short story writer, literary critic and journalist. He is assistant professor at the National Taras Shevchenko Kyiv University, editor of the review Mova ta istoria (Language and history), author of a thesis on ancient myths in Maeterlinck’s dramas. He published 15 books, among them 2 collections of poetry, Where the snow passed (2006) and Overgarden (2012) and a lot of short stories that brought him some national and international prizes in Ukraine (Smoloskyp Prize, 2010, Prize of the Ukrainian Government, 2011), France (International Prize for young authors, PIJA, in 2008), Belgium (Kraainem Prize for novella in 2009), Germany (Prize Oles Honchar in 2008). He translated a lot of French-speaking authors (Maeterlinck, Yourcenar, Bonnefoy, Van Lerberghe, Mozetič etc) that brought him several Prizes, among them the Prize for translation by the Federation Wallonia-Brussels (2012) and a lot of writers from Ukrainian to French. His texts were published in Albania, Armenia, Belgium, Bulgaria, Croatia, France, Germany, Greece, Macedonia, Serbia and Switzerland. Member of the National Union of Writers of Ukraine, of the European Association of Journalists, member correspondent of the European Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters.    

Mountains

I

see the sword that is hurting this river in fire

and these Undines in fire

and the Eagle of absinthe and the trinity

see they have come with the Rose

from the hand that enchanted the blood

and that flows from the blood like a laugh

and your hills that are turning to seas

see one wave then another one hill then

another one sky then another

see and sing there is one gloomy bird in your voice

and it hasn’t discover

that the light hadn’t exploded yet

 

II

but when the morose moon appears

fogs blaze and for a while reflect the day that leaves

oh amen you my vivid source my little stones

that smashed the bluish water

my little bells my little lilac horses

you who were flying off the shoots of whiteness

rays of sunset that started to lament

and you my passion world in decay

you flowers golden-brown who weave your voices

ring out your bells so far one bell and then another

is it a scythe for mowing here this evening

there is no grass only the snow

the source still singing inside the fog

perharps there is somebody near me behind the source here in the fog

someone who mows the light or who can ring the bell

or maybe the light is speaking with the land this evening

I hear someone is breathing here mint cordial

my cry has stuck

you reaper you mow the light

your eyes are impregnated completely with the bluish sky

and with the village of winds

I see the blood is dripping of your arm

oh drop by drop it falls into these whitish flowers

your eyes still love the sky too far

you mowed yourself without mowing yourself

your eyes embraced these mountains oh too far

and no return

my brother tell me how your singing had surpassed the wound

but see the light is turning into silver

then into copper evening

perharps the scythe of light would be enough

to find the voice we hear no more

 

III

the time is green already and your land

is calling and there is no way to hide

yourself no way to hide conciliation

but don’t be sad the day decayed and yet

the rocks are singing in your source

and roots are trembling in your leaves

there is no way to hide conciliation

 

just bring the dream you took from winds and lakes

to setting suns that are reflected in the tears

of moons perharps your vision will embrace

these cloudy words and music maybe they

are only dreams this land imagined in your eyes

perharps this land is hoping to surpass itself

you too