Hello everyone! Here’s your weekly blog post, this time featuring a recent poem of mine that placed second in The Young Writers Initiative’s Heritage contest and also was featured in Juven II (lit mag). It details my experience with my mom’s culture and I’m so excited to share this with you!
Our Father, who art in Heaven;
Отче наш , сущий на небесах;
Oht-che nah-sh, soo-scheey nah nee-bee-sah-kh
I remember strands of my jutting bangs
draping my eyes, squeezed shut,
no peeking allowed
as dictated by my mother.
Heads bowed, clock ticking bedside,
sleepy children reciting
memorized verses every evening,
voices melding together like
the whispering of the wind.
Hallowed be thy name;
Да святится имя Твое;
Da svya-tee-tsah ee-mya tvah-yo
I remember the scuffed pronunciation,
my mother’s amused smile,
Our hands folded upwards,
the sign of blooming devotion.
In between our individual graces,
she’d murmur to us tales of a past life,
of growing up by the Black Sea,
back before she and her family
had to flee, or else perish for their belief.
Thy Kingdom come;
Да приидет Царствие Твое;
Da pree-ee-dyet tsahr-stvee-ye tvah-yo
I remember my embarrassed indifference
at her lilted accent turn to pride,
the older I grew, knowing all that she’d sacrificed
for me to grow up living free.
And yet, eroding time, curse of the world,
a thief in the night, stealing away all
her language from my mouth
but the words of the Lord’s Prayer.
Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven;
Да будет воля Твоя и на земле, как на небе;
Da boo-dyet voh-lya tvah-ya ee nah zeem-lye, kahk nah nye-bye.