Editor’s Note: The following three poems are part of a cycle Olga Bragina wrote in 2023, a year after Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. In the spring of 2022, after several weeks of intense bombing, she and her parents left the country. She spent several months as a refugee in Eastern Europe before returning to Kyiv. She has taken the accompanying photographs of war-time Kyiv neighborhoods where she regularly walks.
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a year ago I arrived to a Polish house in a village
in a village where the former President of Poland resides where tourists rent houses
in a stack of Polish glossies similar to Country Life
there was one magazine with an article about Sylvia Plath
I had translated half of a book about Sylvia Plath and I would love to know what to do with it
I would love to finish the translation because it’s a good book actually
and there isn’t that much secondary literature about Sylvia Plath available in translation
I translated this book while my parents insulated the windows of our flat with tape
thinking that during an explosion the insulation tape might somehow help
I went to the kitchen drank tea and decided that no we must go abroad
Sylvia Plath was stuck in a snowed-in English house without a functional central heating
and I thought we are stuck in a building that can be destroyed by a bomb probably we must go somewhere
we arrived to the house at the edge of Poland on the Lithuanian border
somewhere nearby Mickiewicz was born
and the magazine opened to the article about Sylvia Plath
Kyiv, May 2024. A military vehicle in Kontraktova ploshcha (Square of Contracts)
in the historical Podil neighborhood.
Kyiv, March 2024. A mural in the underground passage near the Kontraktova ploshcha
subway station in the historical Podil neighborhood.
Kyiv, April 2024. Just before Easter in the Kurenivka neighborhood. The graffiti on the wall reads, “Nowadays everyone is captivated by the holidays … and some are in captivity on the holidays.” And in red, “PTSD.”
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I’m an average consumer who visits cafes and doesn’t think about the war
thinks only about death
about each day being the last which is why I wear the brightest dresses
which is why as I listen to a popular lecture I keep thinking what’s the use for this knowledge tomorrow
what, the worm that devours will quiz me
I’m an average consumer who thinks about what to eat tomorrow
when my money runs out what will I eat tomorrow
war or no war yes I’m probably ashamed
and ashamed to the next degree because there’s the war
there’s the war and I have this green skirt
I don’t have an occasion to wear it as I’m not even going out ultimately
the green skirt and a plethora of useless knowledge
toward which I feel infinite tenderness because there’s the war
Kyiv, January 14, 2024. A courtyard near Babyn Yar Memorial hours after a massive air missile raid. That morning, we left the bomb shelter in the subway and walked around the back alleys, looking for an open café.
Kyiv, July 2024. An image of Kateryna holding a bag of baked goods on the side of a bread kiosk. Kateryna (1844), by Ukrainian painter Taras Shevchenko, is the subject of a painting and a poem
of the same name that depicts the tragic fate of a Ukrainian serf girl who was seduced and
then abandoned and disgraced by a Russian officer.
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out on the street the air smells of smoke
no this isn’t the war simply somebody is probably burning leaves
no matter what’s going on in our city people are burning leaves
that’s stability I guess even while we’re at war
I hear the air raid siren and fall asleep
whenever I hear “Proceed to Bomb Shelter” I fall asleep
because deep sleep as everyone knows is the key to health
and we so need our health during the war
the air smells of smoke the air of the fatherland always smells of smoke
no matter whether we’re at peace or at war the air always smells of smoke
the people who suffer from respiratory illnesses and hypochondriacs
will never survive here and the war is unnecessary
and we whoever we might be must live onto victory
must see that our country becomes young and free
must see that the earth births flowers not bombs
must see that in our blood there’s no war DNA
I go out breathe the smoke return home
that is no longer a castle but simply a house of cards
that one day will collapse and bury me under the queens the jacks
crossing out everything that burned here before the war
