On Ukrainian Independence

O

Brodsky Joseph

Dear Charles XII, the Poltava battle

Has been fortunately lost. To quote Lenin’s burring rattle,

“Time will show you Kuzka’s mother”, ruins along the waste,

Bones of post-mortem bliss with a Ukrainian aftertaste.

It’s not the green flag , eaten by the isotope ,

It’s the yellow-and-blue flying over Konotop ,

Made out of canvas – must be a gift from Toronto –

Alas, it bears no cross, but the Khokhly don’t want to.

Oh, rushnyks and roubles, sunflowers in summer season!

We Katsapy have no right to charge them with treason.

With icons and vodka, for seventy years we’ve bungled,

In our Ryazan we’ve lived like Tarzan in the jungle.

We’ll tell them, filling the pause with a loud “your mom”:

Away with you, Khokhly, and may your journey be calm!

Wear your zhupans , or uniforms, which is even better,

Go to all four points of the compass and all the four letters.

It’s over now. Now hurry back to your huts

To be gang-banged by Krauts and Polacks right in your guts.

It’s been fun hanging together from the same gallows loop,

But when you’re alone, you can eat all that sweet beetroot soup.

Good riddance, Khokhly, it’s over for better or worse,

I’ll go spit in the Dnieper, perhaps it’ll flow in reverse,

Like a proud bullet train looking at us askance,

Stuffed with leathery seats and ages-old grievance.

Don’t speak ill of us. Your bread and wheat we don’t need,

Nor your sky, may we all choke on sunflower seed.

No need for bad blood or gestures of fury ham-fisted,

Seems that our love is up, if it at all existed.

Why should we plow our broken roots with our verbs?

You were born out of earth, its podzolic soils and its herbs.

Quit flexing your rights and laying all the blame on us,

It is your bloody soil that has become your onus.

Oh, gardens and grasslands and steppes, varenyks filled with honey!

We’ve had greater losses before, lost more people than money.

We’ll get by somehow. And if you want teary eyes –

Wait ‘til next time, guys, this provision no longer applies.

God rest ye merry Cossacks, hetmans, and gulag guards!

But mark: when it’s your turn to be dragged to graveyards,

You’ll whisper and wheeze, your deathbed mattress a-pushing,

Not Shevchenko’s bullshit but poetry lines from Pushkin .

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