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R No.26
Ah, my friend… is like this, you see.
When I write those words - “There’s plenty of girls in the sea” - I think I am making simple song about love, about loss, about trying to stay free when things not so good to begin with. But now… now I see I was writing prophecy about bears and drowning nations, yes?
In my country, we have saying: “Poet sometimes speak truth before he understand what truth he speaking.”
I write about surgeon who “performs precise little cuts, but he’s never perfect, he’s thinking too much” - and now Putin, he cut Ukraine exactly like this. 135 meters per day, very precise, very patient. I write about lifeguard with whistle who decide “it’s whatever you want it to be” - and Trump, he meet this lifeguard in Alaska, get whistle blown in his face.
My words about “as soon as you get yourself free, then somebody stops you from swimming” - this is Ukraine story, no? 3.7 million displaced, 6.9 million refugees, all stopped from swimming by bear with whistle.
I write “the bartender concedes, from inside his vest, that none of the best ones were ever the best” - and Trump, he learn this lesson hard way. He think he is great dealmaker, but Putin show him: best deal is no deal when you hold all cards.
When I write “tend to the void, don’t just fill it” - I think I am being wise about loneliness, about empty spaces in heart. But now I see: Putin, he fill Ukrainian void with Russian concrete. He not tend - he consume.
My chorus, “keep it short, simple and sweet, ‘cause there’s plenty of girls in the sea” - this become Trump philosophy. He think plenty opportunities for peace, plenty chances to make deal. But for Ukraine? Only one sea, only one chance to breathe, only one rope when drowning.
Sometimes words find their meaning in dark places poet never imagine. I write about love, but universe, she use my words to speak about war.
The passionate painter say “don’t make fuss just ‘cause grass wasn’t green” - and world tell Ukraine exactly this. Don’t make fuss about sovereignty, about children, about future. Grass never green anyway.
But here is truth my babushka teach me: when poet write from heart, even broken heart, words carry power across time. My sonnet, it become mirror for this moment when bears pretend to be merchants and swimmers learn that lifeguards sometimes work for sharks.
Generation will sing these words and remember: there is not plenty of everything. Some things - freedom, dignity, homeland - these things, you get only one. And when bear come with honey, you count your fingers after.
My void, it speak to Ukrainian void. My sea, it become Black Sea where ships sink and dreams drown.
Poetry is prophecy wearing ordinary clothes.
Even when poet speak with broken English and heart full of Eastern European wisdom.
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