[Editor’s note] As a news outlet, Kyiv Post does not normally publish writing that would be more suited to literary journals, such as poetry or fiction. But when offered an exclusive, English-language op-ed in verse by a legendary Ukrainian avant-garde poet, we couldn’t say no.
Yuriy Tarnawsky was born in 1934, in western Ukraine. At the end of World War II he fled Ukraine as a refugee and eventually settled in the United States, where he co-founded the New York Group of poets, who were active in the late 1950s and 1960s.
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Perhaps more than any other post-World War II Ukrainian poet, Tarnawsky has pushed the boundaries of formal experimentation in poetry and prose, and has become a major influence on subsequent generations of avant-garde writers in both Ukraine and America.
He is also a linguist and worked as a computer engineer for IBM, where he developed an AI translator prototype for the US government.
Over the years he has published dozens of poetry collections, novels and essays, written in both Ukrainian and English. He is best known in the English-speaking world for his novel Three Blondes and Death. His most recent novel, set in Ukraine during World War II, is Warm Arctic Nights.
It Is the Rotting of the Corpse
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the stench that streams from it
it is the pestilence it spreads around
it is the crawling and the buzzing of the flies
it is the stirring of the maggots in the flesh
it is the coming apart of fibers and the oozing of cells
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the skeletons of high-rises left standing up
it is the Buchenwald of cities
it is the streets empty of people
it is the streets full of rubble
it is the empty sky above it
it is the guts of apartments spilling out
it is the lives of its inhabitants spilling out like guts
it is their guts spilling out
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the parades in the blood-red square
it is the columns of dead men goose-stepping
it is the rows of corpses in the stands looking down
it is the drooling out of the corners of their half-shut mouths
it is the vomit of medals running down their chests
it is the head corpse looking down
it is the pale blue puddles of his Doberman dog eyes
it is the swelling of his steroidal face
it is the cold in his geriatric knees
it is the shaking of his hands and mind
it is the crowds of the dead cheering on
it is the eyes of millions of the dead staring at TV screens
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the bodies of people in village streets lying face up
it is the bodies of people in village streets lying face down
it is the bodies of people in village streets lying on their sides
it is the bodies of people in village streets trying to remember their postures in their mothers’ wombs
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the rapists’ phone calls to their wives
it is the cheering of their wives to go on raping
it is the wish lists of their wives dictated over the phone
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the stealing of engagement rings and wedding bands and earrings and bracelets and pendants
it is the stealing of teddy bears and rattles
it is the stealing of baby clothes and shoes
it is the stealing of baby carriages and tricycles
it is the stealing of children’s backpacks and carry-ons
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the stealing of iPhones
it is the stealing of iPads and desktops and laptops
it is the stealing of TV sets and washing machines and refrigerators
it is the stealing of gadgets and vacuum cleaners and floor rugs and toilet bowls
it is the sign scrawled on the wall saying “Who gave you the right to live well?”
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the stealing of the name and the history
it is the stealing of religion and culture
it is the stealing of people and land
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the killing of the mothers and the fathers of the children
it is the killing of the children of the mothers and the fathers
it is the killing of parents and children
it is the killing of grandparents and grandchildren
it is the killing of brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts
it is the killing of best friends and neighbors
it is the killing of total strangers
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the airplanes trailing smoke like flicked out cigarette butts before hitting the ground
it is the ships going down in the sea like long narrow shapes in a computer game
it is the tanks bursting out in flames like stubby shapes in a computer game
it is the twisted bodies of tanks abandoned on roads and bridges and in fields and woods
it is the drooping barrels of their guns
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the bodies of soldiers abandoned on roads and bridges and in fields and woods
it is the bodies of soldiers trying to hide in shallow graves
it is the bodies of soldiers rotting
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the twisted minds of the people
it is the people bitten by the mad dog of hatred
it is the old women waving worn red flags barking like dogs
it is the big sharp dog fangs in their wide-open mouths
it is the foam of lies on their lips
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the country with no tomorrow
it is the people with no knowledge
it is the language with no word for truth
it is the leaders with no shame
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is the natural order of things
it is the course of history
it is the way empires crumble
it is the beginning of the beginning
it is the end of the end
it is the rotting of the corpse
it is a corpse
May 9, 2022
May 18, 2022
The views expressed in this opinion article are the author’s and not necessarily those of Kyiv Post.
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