Predatory Poetry
I’d like to say in all modesty
and in a place to the side
of the huge chorus of classics –
Eliot and Cavafy, Milosz and Walcott,
Ana Blandiana and Gabriela Mistral –
that poetry does not save.
It cannot be used
as a bulletproof vest
or a barricade,
or as antidepressants
or antibiotics,
and even like valerian.
Leaves of green mint
have a calming effect,
smell of sweet rose
encourages hope at least
(no matter that most hopes
are illusions never materialize).
Poetry feeds exclusively
on my blood,
competing with predators
in this noble cause –
spectral analysis
reveals only an aggressive red
with traces of carbon monoxide,
wine and excess sugar.
It runs into the thick
dark forest of language
and leaves me at the mercy of fate.
Forsakes, forsakes, forsakes…
translated from Ukrainian by Marta Kondratiuk