Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
TETYANA HRYTSAN-CHONKA
Ukrainian writer, lives in Transcarpathia.
Author of 12 collections of poetry and the novel-essay “Living Doors, or I – the blind Apple of the ages. I am a Woman … ”, co-author of 77 anthologies and almanacs, all-Ukrainian and international publications, among them:“ Article ”- Tel Aviv,“ Soul ”(Japanese poetry collection),“ BRZEGI OGNIA I WODY ”(Polish almanac), literary and art magazine “TextOver”, international collection of poetry about peace “Lily Marlene”, Greek collection “Hellas”, Chinese collection “Poetry of the World”, textbook for Ukrainian students “Modern literature of the native land”, author of the Azerbaijani-Ukrainian poetry collection “Golden” apple “and others.
Member of the All-Ukrainian public organization LO “Kobzar” of the National Union of Writers of Ukraine, International Academy LIK.
Winner of international and All-Ukrainian awards and winner of many competitions. In particular: Laureate of the Panteleimon Kulish International Literary and Artistic Prize (2020) – for the book of prose “Living Doors, or I am a ripe apple of the ages, I am a Woman”, Laureate of the international competition “Pushkin and Gogol in Italy”, Laureate of the International Prize. Franz Kafka, Laureate of the International Golden Feather Award in Azerbaijan and others.
Life
As a saint who cares for tears,
To the slope, to heaven, to mom…
To the yellow clay with the sky, Man,
What else do you need?
You are fruitful, you are for relatives
You crawl through the vine, you carry the memory,
You know before, you know about yesterday,
And you do not accept today…
The road is too flat in front of you.
What then, what else is needed?
Man does not know the joy,
To the white world
The man brought charms,
Man came out of hell into heaven,
The man wrote extremely
Important line…
The man put on a shirt,
Man bleached hryvnias…
Now it’s time for showers
They will write about her life.
When the sun was setting at the end of the day, everything could be different.But it happened, because each move kept its own Consciousness, each particle counted its rays, eventually penetrating to the bottom of the common Lodge, where all the Worlds converged, granulating so much, all the way to the ultimate Nothingness, to the Black Delusion, the dot – where it all began…
There is no Truth where there is no Love, – exclaimed the Angel bitterly. – And the deepest Truth is born from the deepest Love.
Mirrors look into the unknown You – even when the invisible I flaunts itself in front of Nobody’s Nothingness. The Word gave birth to the World, the World became the Word. And then the earth caught fire and the Prophets carried that Word to the cross – they let blood and water flow so that a new Self could be born – a new tribe, a new World. The angel began to wonder and wonder – because the earth was still penetrated by that delusion, and it was already becoming dark itself… gave birth to a family. The nation provoked the wait.
If he appreciates someone, then first of all those who will be able to see in you: Sadness – behind a smile, Love – behind anger and the reason for your silence…
A fog hung over the meadows. He emerged from the abyss so quickly, as if he was beaten with a stick, as if driven by evil vampires. The end, which is the beginning, Pair of Leli, which has its own chat-ok – a prayer chat from the Eyes of Life emerges… Seedling of the Tree of Leli – the Higher Self in the Pair of Yu, who carry the world with excitement into the worlds, where the holy Bliss penetrates… There So-Vist started
A small sacred country
Wide open chest,
I’m going on my knees…
Oh, people, Jews-people,
Where, when, why?
Lying… The month of December tiptoes,
Makes snow in lumps…
In circles, people in a circle,
Between them is Christ and smoke.
They rested on the ashes
Yesterday’s roosters dreamed,
Look – it’s our summer genes,
And we, and the shadow…
Running through the world
In peace, peaceful people
On a peaceful dance peaceful Cat,
And there, far away, is Sinful
Leaning on the porch…
There the sun does not burn, there the moon does not mute.
There, the attaché of Grodny appreciates the deceased.
And people are spinning in the rye – Yesterday’s watchful moments
Good is always above a person
And what’s in the old newspapers?
History, destinies, enough…
The letters, thoughts, weak, have been erased
Words come to the surface
What kind of rhythms are these?
What kind of bells are ringing?
Am I still alive?
In the newspapers, speeches arise,
So loud and silent, like a choir,
Makes you want to run, run somewhere
To whom? Someone is already gone…
What kind of stigmas, what rotten rhymes?
What kind of stylish circles are these?
In circles, back home,
To hell, to filth…
Is mom alive?
