It’s terrifying to write about it. Rhyming these words feels like

walking, again and again, over the scorching hot embers.

Taking her hand and holding it, holding it.

Being killed together with them, being captured

together with them, being the one who keeps searching.

Being in the basement, in the trenches, in the grave, under the siege.

Being a doctor without supplies in the hospital.

Being a mother whose son is at Azovstal.

Being buried alive under the rubble.

No words are enough to write it.

No heart is enough to write it.

Only hatred lets you do it.

Bad poems come out about it.

Horrible poems. And they get even worse.

Author — Oksana Stomina, poet, writer

Translator — Hanna Leliv

Illustrator — Victoria Boyko

Editor — Maryna Korchaka

Programme Directors — Julia Ovcharenko, Demyan Om


Confession of a poet after a year of war

Confession of a poet after a year of war

If you think of yourself as a poet or a poetess and you are considering taking this path seriously, most likely sooner or later you will ask yourself this question: what can I do for poetry?

Each Moment Somewhere For Someone The World Is Ending

Each Moment Somewhere For Someone The World Is Ending

Few weeks ago (mid January it was)* I took part in a writer’s conference with other international writers in Kolkata, India. It was a panel discussion addressing the topic of “Writing for the post-pandemic world”.


At a High Cost

The morning begins with a final farewell to a soldier in our yard. He died in the war. A message about this appeared in the neighbor chat yesterday, indicating the building number and the entrance. High-rise buildings, just like low-rise ones, can’t avoid loss in wartime. There are more than 800 apartments in our building. Is there at least one unaffected by the war?