aiI am Antonina Tymchenko, a writer from Ukraine. I'm a member of the National Writers’ Union of Ukraine, a Ph.D. and Associate Professor of Ukrainian Language and Literature; also an editor, tutor, and author of seven books of poetry, several children’s books and numerous articles. I am a laureate of the International Non-State Ukrainian-German Literary Prize named after Oles Honchar as well as recipient of many other Ukrainian literary awards.

aiIn March 2022, my parents, children, and I were forced to leave Ukraine because our hometown of Kharkiv was under enemy fire. We came to Lviv and are extremely grateful to the Ukrzaliznytsia (Ukrainian Railways) volunteers and staff. They have continued to do tremendous work supporting and saving people's lives throughout the war. Then we had to leave for Poland.

aiMy most vivid memories of that year — beyond the unforgettable fear of war, the horrific details etched into my mind, and the devastating feeling of homelessness and uncertainty — are of an enormous wave of love and support. I have never felt so much gratitude to so many people at once.

aiThroughout the war years, starting in 2014, I gradually assembled a manuscript of poems, dreaming of a future book titled Cape of Good Hope. In 2024, thanks to the support of the University of Alberta’s Disrupted Ukrainian Scholars and Students program and the Wirth Institute for Austrian and Central European Studies, the book was published.

aiCape of Good Hope is a bilingual collection of my poems in Ukrainian and English (translations by Anna Antonova, Anna Kononenko, Ian Ross Singleton, John Wright, Julia Rakityanska, and Kevin Reese).

aiThis book is about the feeling of home — and the hope of finding home. The title does not refer to a geographical location. Rather, it means a place of faith, aspiration, and love; a space for overcoming fear, taking a step toward harmony, and learning to rejoice.

aiSome of the poems were written before the war, others during wartime. While they form the story of one person, they may resonate with the destinies and feelings of many — people who once lived ordinary lives, studied, loved, and raised families. And then were forced to find out what war is.

aiThis collection is also an expression of my gratitude to God who supports us and gives us eternal hope. We are all standing on the threshold of the future, praying that it will be peaceful, that no one will die. We are all on the Cape of Good Hope.

aiIt seems to me that now more than ever it is important to draw attention to Ukrainian realities, to emphasize the importance of Ukrainian culture, to remind everyone that Europe is not standing apart from Ukraine, and that currently a terrible danger is hanging over the continent. English is the language of international communication. I will be happy if my poems are accessible and strike a chord for readers all over the world.

ai
ai* * * 
aiI’m coming to you— 
aiby train, the one I imagined. 
aiHere’s a woman with an infant, 
aiboth are crying, 
aiI’m crying too. 
aiA boy and a dog 
aijoyfully hop, 
aias does my heart. 
aiThere goes a girl, collecting donations 
aifor a thermal camera. 
aiThere goes Lord God the conductor, 
aigiving everybody provisions. 
aiThere goes a ninety-year-old poet, 
aiblind, 
aireturning home from evacuation. 
aiHands cramped. 
aiThe sun’s in a coma. 
aiIt’s almost two years like this. 
aiFrom the night beyond the windows 
aia medevac emerges. 
aiGod stops the train— 
aiHe’s more needed there, 
ailike water for fish. 
aiHe carries 
aiwounded onto the train, 
aiwho all say His name. 
aiThe train moves, and He leaps onto the footboard— 
aiHe, who became water for the fish, 
aiis fish for the water. 
aiTired, pale, 
aishining, like the warm South. 
aiAgain, I’m coming to you. 
ai
ai(translated by Ian Ross Singleton) 

ai
ai* * * 
aiLet this road be peacefully quiet. 
aiSnow fell; all green leaves are erased. 
aiAnd the land grew grey and tired, 
aiwhile the day slept in my embrace. 
ai
aiWhile this autumn was searching, fretting, 
aifor some warmth where damp cornstalks stood, 
aiwhile I’m leaving you, silent, regretful 
aithat I left not the way that I should. 
ai
aiSnow is melting—guilty, defiant, 
aidripping from windows, leaves, and doors. 
aiOctober. I’m leaving you, loving and crying. 
aiSnow. And war. 
ai
ai(translated by Anna Antonova) 

ai
ai* * * 
aiMy mood is low-low, 
aipoetic-poetic. 
aiI dream of cities, living, without war, 
aiand each person is alive. 
aiI dream of my kin, here, 
ainext to me. 
aiTheir hearts are not cold. 
ai
aiThank you, oh God, for work and rest, 
aifor these visitations. 
ai
ai(translated by Kevin Reese) 

ai
ai* * * 
aiVerses smelled like little fledgling birds 
aiin their cozy nest on top our house. 
aiThese dear walls already felt like ours 
aiuntil a bomber up above was heard... 
aiLet this war destroy its own hurt, 
aichew its own throat into splinters. 
aiThere can be no verse without free birds, 
aibut all our birds were shot that winter. 
ai
ai(translated by Anna Antonova) 

ai
ai* * * 
aiI left you 
aias if rejecting you, 
aiand now I’m drinking 
aimy guilt to the last drop. 
aiOh, bloody land 
aiI’m in a stone house, 
aiand you are in fever, 
aiand you have the war. 
aiYour helpless shriek 
aiis now a fading wheeze, 
aifor the devil is pulling out your heart. 
ai
ai(translated by Kevin Reese) 

ai
ai* * * 
aiThey’re shocked, the geese in skein, 
aiat seeing death in Avdiïvka. 
aiThe city lay down in a coffin. 
aiGod whispered: “What’s being done?” 
ai
aiThe geese honk, 
aithey want to hear the song: 
ai“Goosey goosey, good night, 
aitake me with in your flight!” 
aiThe soldiers remain silent. 
ai
aiThe geese in skein 
aiwent mute, formed a little yus, 
aiand vanished into the distant sky. 
aiThe city lies in its coffin, quiet. 
ai
ai(translated by Ian Ross Singleton) 

ai
ai* * * 
aiGeysers of warm blood gush from underground, 
aia bullet, like a horsefly, bores into a cow’s side. 
aiThe coming spring plaits a net of leaves, 
aibut who even knows whether spring will be. 
ai
aiEmpty houses, ruins, graves, ruins, houses empty. 
aiThere goes a soldier happy because given leave, 
aimama wails, and grandpa’s starting to cough— 
aihe’s known for long now what they’re capable of. 
ai
aiBecause he remembers the earth’s taste from thirty-three; 
aibecause he remembers dad’s arrest in thirty-seven. 
aiMaybe it’s history. Maybe it’s bones ground to dust. 
aiBut it can’t be forgotten even in final rest. 
ai
ai(translated by Ian Ross Singleton)