[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.

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.

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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

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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

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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

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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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