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Showing posts with label Kherson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kherson. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 16, 2022

THE WATERMELONS OF KHERSON

by Diane Kendig


When President Volodymyr Zelensky visited the newly liberated city of Kherson he joked that he was there because he "wanted a watermelon".

It was important to support people there despite the continuing risk, he added. But why a watermelon?

The president was referencing the fruit that has become an internet meme in the last few days - a fruit that is a symbol of the southern Ukrainian region. —BBC,  November 15, 2022



Pablo Neruda called it “the green whale of summer,”
but this is November and these whales,
beached all autumn on the shores of the Duipro,
could not swim up river to Kyiv
from the rich farmlands of Kherson, under siege.

And since the fruit has always been a sign
for the region, with its statue of this “moon on earth”
floating, cut open, its ruby slice bearing “black stars”
on a brick platform over everyone’s head, a flag
green, white, red, /that dissolves into/
wild rivers, sweet as sugar,” when news came
of a counteroffensive to retake the city,
watermelon memes bobbed up on its Twitter account,
not yet freed but amassing like pods.

And when
their liberators arrived, the people surrounded them
and embraced them as people once did in Paris,
and the soldiers embraced the people. One soldier,
running to an old woman, on her knees
in front of her house, lifted her up and held her,
his grandmother.

The citizens greeted them with armloads
of flowers, mostly chrysanthemums,
because this was not the season of the sunflower
but of the fall, with yellow, orange, and russet mums.

And too, the watermelon rose up on the streets
in drawings and in all their real roundness,
this “mine or mountain of fantastic food,”
sustenance floating buoyantly in the hands
of the rescued and rescuers, sustaining them.


Diane Kendig is the author of five poetry collections. Her latest is Woman with a Fan. Her writing has ppeared in J Journal, Wordgathering, The New Verse News, Valparaiso Review, and other journals. She ran a prison writing workshop in Ohio for 18 years, and now curates the Cuyahoga County Public Library weblog, Read + Write.

Saturday, October 22, 2022

KILLING IS IN THE AIR

by David Radavich




                On the murder of Yuriy Kerpatenko


Ours is the age of barbarians.
When life is valued little
as a song.
 
A conductor refuses
to lead the music     
of his oppressors
 
and is shot dead
without his baton.
 
Soldiers who shoot him
fear no lingering guilt, 
no final judgment, 
no cosmic shame.
 
The man who dies
is an ant to be squished,
a former echo only.
 
Let us hope the silence
will accuse forever,
 
that angels will sing
the conductor
to his final place
enhemmed in flowers.


David Radavich's poetry collections include two epics, America Bound and America Abroad, as well as Middle-East Mezze and The Countries We Live In. His latest book is Unter der Sonne / Under the Sun: German and English Poems (2022).  

HOW NORMAL LIFE IS IN KHERSON!

by Bonnie Naradzay


Russian soldiers have shot dead a Ukrainian musician in his home after he refused to take part in a concert in occupied Kherson, according to the culture ministry in Kyiv. Conductor Yuriy Kerpatenko declined to take part in a concert “intended by the occupiers to demonstrate the so-called ‘improvement of peaceful life’ in Kherson”, the ministry said in a statement on its Facebook page. The concert on 1 October was intended to feature the Gileya chamber orchestra, of which Kerpatenko was the principal conductor, but he “categorically refused to cooperate with the occupants”, the statement said. —The Guardian, October 16, 2022


How normal life is in Kherson, 
ruled by Russian invaders since April!
A life of repression, kidnapping,
and mass detainment of its citizens.
How normal life is in Kherson!
with Russian invaders planning
a concert for the first of October
to show how normal life is in Kherson 
while deporting everyone to unknown 
locations from Kherson because
this is how normal life is in Kherson.  
The conductor for the concert, 
that the Russian invaders insisted on,
to show how normal and calm it was,
Yurii Kerpatenko, declined to take part .
So in true Soviet tradition the invaders
went to his home and murdered him, 
to prove how normal life is in Kherson.


Bonnie Naradzay’s poems are scheduled for publication in Crab Creek Review, Dappled Things, and The Birmingham Poetry Review, and appear in AGNI, New Letters (Pushcart Nomination), RHINO, Kenyon Review online, Tampa Review, Florida Review online, EPOCH, Pinch (Pushcart Nomination), American Journal of Poetry, Potomac Review, The Poetry Miscellany, and other places, and her essay on friendship was published recently in the anthology Deep Beauty. She leads weekly poetry sessions in day shelters for the homeless and at a retirement center.

Sunday, May 22, 2022

LET PEACE BE THE MOTHER OF EVERYTHING

by Steven Croft




Polemos pater panton (War is the father of all things.)
—Heraclitus


From the internet I read about the bombardment of Barcelona
by Italians, Germans, in 1938, watch the Movietone footage
of children running, the torn arm of a father's tweed jacket dark
with blood even in the film's black and white.  Omen, prelude
of what would come.  Today Germans, Italians, the rest of us,
condemn the bombs' carnage in Kharkiv, Kyiv, Mariupol.

The UN was founded in 1945 to prevent world war and make
the world better.  A gradualism powered by hope, a world
where the center will hold, held by our civilized will, forged
from what we all want and what we know we did wrong.  But...
those bomb-melted multistorey wrecks of buildings in the gritty,
jumpy newsreel are grimly colored in today in Kharkiv, Kyiv, Mariupol.

War could never be a mother.  Not that she couldn't cradle a rifle
as easily as a baby, plant a garden of mines—but motherhood
is too likely to want the peace to nurture children, is too ready
to negotiate, to drop the aim of a final strike on the wounded,
seeing her own sons and daughters in them, their mothers' pain.

Even if it, she, starts small like an opening bud in spring, compassion
could start at a steel plant in Mariupol where bloody-bandaged men
are being stretchered out to buses today on CNN.  Negotiation
could spread to Kharkiv, Kyiv, Kherson, Luhansk, Mykolaiv, peace
could become a warm-bedded garden, now the mother of everything.


Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. He is the author of New World Poems (Alien Buddha Press, 2020).  His poems have appeared in Willawaw Journal, San Pedro River Review, The New Verse News, North of Oxford, Anti-Heroin Chic, Soul-Lit, and other places, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.