A pysanka poem worth sharing

Discover the magic of pysanky one poem at a time in our monthly sharing of these words arranged purposefully with meaning, sound, and rhythm.

Just as Baba’s Beeswax https://www.babasbeeswax.com inspires and encourages beginners, experts, and anyone interested in Ukrainian egg decorating, these featured authors connect us to tradition and inspire us to new possibilities.

The late Orysia Tracz, in Ukrainian Weekly, said “If you need to think of a Ukrainian poem describing the beauty of the Ukrainian village and countryside, a poem by Taras Shevchenko (of course!) usually comes to mind: "A village, and the heart is at peace, a village in our Ukraine, a village like a pysanka...” (1847).

 She goes on to say that in another poem, "Na Velykden, na solomi..." [on Easter, on the straw...] Shevchenko describes how children brag about what gifts they received for Easter. The essence of the poem comes through in the English translation. But what will not and cannot come across in English is the beauty of Shevchenko's work. The phrase "lost in translation" is certainly true here. The melody and beauty of the Ukrainian language - and how Shevchenko incomparably used it - defies translation. Ukrainian and Italian are regarded as the two most musical languages in the world, for singing, for opera and, I think, for poetry. This poem is in the C.H. Andrusyshen/Watson Kirkconnell translation, which retains the rhythm of the original:

We hope you enjoy reading Na Velykden, na solomni, by Taras Shevchenko:

On Easter Sunday among the straw

Out in the sun the children played
With Easter eggs in colors braw
And each of them loud boasting made
Of gifts received. One, for the feast,
Was given a shirt with sleeves of white;
One with a ribbon had been pleased,
One with a garment, laced and tight;
This boy was given a lambskin cap,
That one a pair of horsehide boots,
And one a jacket to unwrap.
Only one child among their bruits,
An orphan, had no gift of bliss;
Her hands are hidden in her sleeves.
She hears: "My mother bought me this,
My father got me that." (She grieves.)
"My good godmother made a blouse
Embroidered gay with dainty thread."
"The priest has fed me at his house,"
At last the little orphan said.
[Kos Aral, 1849, in exile]

 

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