Lіudmyla Diadchenko is a Poet and Vice President of Ukrainian Writers Association, Ukrainian literary rating "The Book of the Year" expert. Was born 2.08.1988.
2012 - Master literary creation in National Taras Shevchenko University, Kyiv. 2012 - Art Editor of the "Suchasnist" journal.
2014 - The deputy of chief editor of “Image.ua” journal.
2016 - Doctor of philosophy (Theory of literature).
Scientific interests: mithopoetics, hermeneutics, spatial studios.
2019 - Director of the Educational and Scientific Center of Shevchenko Studies at National Taras Shevchenko University. Living and working in Kyiv.
Some poems translated Georgian, Belarusian, Russian, English, Arabic, Azerbaijani and Turkish languages.
Passing Venice along,
where it's not so deep,
And across, gathering dreams and hitting gondolas…
The land with no sign of where the rain gets and drops water of it,
And how long it is lasting as first and foremost.
Now it's winter in your lands,
holes covered by sand,
Changes of weather as well as of women are tangible.
That is time to burn fire with ships and boats crashed
Sailing peacefully to the coast which is visible.
Is a man from the South aware of winter and cold to the bone?
There are masks and my carnivals… but even a gram
I'm not closer to you. But I'm walking on nets submerged
Waving to gondoliers.
You call them "boatmen".
An island with wild goats and two stranger donkeys
Has ripped its olive tree waiting for godness.
We don't need just treasures, we want see them buried
And, also, old maps to make me look for this.
When the autumn comes and lies down like on altar
There is a lamb or grape, accept them but don't taste this.
That is the law of mine, consider it like Gibraltar
Impeding to link Africa with Europe outstanding.
But water is washing away edges of boats,
So swim away with a bundle of freedom.
I didn't meet those whom I was looking for,
But those who I met, it seemed, I hadn't seen them.
There's nothing in common, so we do not talk,
But we're not against to approve a silence in the truth.
Ducks' wings become heavier above the seashore.
There's nothing in common. Could anyone shoot?
Guilty and guiltless rains, like milk in a coffee,
Will be drunk by us, and the cups will be broken.
By sky all of my planes have already been stolen,
And all motherlands' voices have also stopped talking.
If I fly or not: it's a playing one's words with mistakes,
Where you stay leaving all for sled dogs.
But unlike belongings, you can't lift pain by hands:
So take it and care it yourself, if you want.
Translated by Dmytro Teplouhov