Lina Kostenko celebrates her 96th birthday: facts from the poet's life and work

On March 19, Ukrainian poet-sixties, writer, and dissident Lina Kostenko, who is one of the most famous women in Ukraine, turns 96, and her work and activities remain an important part of Ukrainian culture, writes UNN.

Lina Kostenko is a representative of the Sixties generation, author of poetry, historical novels, and children's works. She is a laureate of the Shevchenko Prize (1987) and the Antonovych Prize (1989), and in 2022 she received the Order of the Legion of Honor.

In 1967, she, along with Pavlo Tychyna and Ivan Drach, was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature. In addition, the poet is an honorary professor of the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy and an honorary doctor of Lviv and Chernivtsi Universities. At the same time, she refused the title of Hero of Ukraine.

Lina Kostenko's creative path

Lina Kostenko is the author of a number of poetry collections, including "Rays of the Earth" (1957), "Sails" (1958), "Journeys of the Heart" (1961), "On the Banks of the Eternal River" (1977), "Uniqueness" (1980), and "Garden of Unmelting Sculptures" (1987).

Among her most famous works are the novel in verse "Marusya Churai" (1979), for which she received the Shevchenko Prize, as well as the poem "Berestechko" (1999, 2010).

In 2010, the writer published her first prose novel, "Notes of a Ukrainian Madman," which became one of the best-selling Ukrainian books in 2011.

The best poems of Lina Kostenko 

Indeed, winged creatures need no ground.

If there's no earth, there will be sky.

If there's no field, there will be freedom.

If there's no pair, there will be clouds.

This, perhaps, is the truth of a bird…

But what about a human? What about a human?

Lives on earth. Does not fly alone.

But has wings. But has wings!

Those wings, they are not of fluff and feathers,

But of truth, virtue, and trust.

For some – of faithfulness in love.

For some – of eternal striving.

For some – of sincerity in work.

For some – of generosity in care.

For some – of song, or of hope,

Or of poetry, or of a dream.

A human seemingly does not fly…

But has wings. But has wings!

***

And everything in the world must be experienced,

And every finish is, in essence, a start,

And one should not divine the future,

And it's not worth crying over the past.

So let's rejoice, people, among people,

Let the mill grind its eternal grist.

My heart is stuck, like a splinter in my chest,

Never mind, death will cure all this.

Let all unseen be seen,

Let all forgiven be forgiven,

Let life be lived as it should be,

Alas, nothing depends on us…

But one must live. Somehow one must live.

This is called experience, endurance, and tempering.

And one should not divine the future,

And it's not worth crying over the past.

As it is. And it could be worse,

And it could be completely, completely bad.

And while the mind has not yet soured from trouble –

Don't be a slave and laugh like Rabelais!

So let's rejoice, people, among people,

Let the mill grind its eternal grist.

My heart is stuck, like a splinter in my chest,

Never mind, death will cure all this.

Let all unseen be seen,

Let all forgiven be forgiven.

The only thing that still depends on us –

At least to live life as it should be. *** Terrible words, when they are silent,

when they suddenly lurk,

when you don't know where to begin them,

because all words have already been someone's.

Someone cried with them, suffered, ached,

began with them and ended with them.

Billions of people and billions of words,

and you have to utter them for the first time!

Everything repeated: both beauty and ugliness.

Everything was: asphalt and knotweed.

Poetry is always uniqueness,

some immortal touch to the soul.

***

With your eyes you told me: I love you.

My soul was taking its difficult exam.

Like the quiet chime of mountain crystal

the unspoken remained unspoken.

Life went on, passed that platform,

Silence called out with a station loudspeaker.

Many words were written with a pen.

The unspoken remained unspoken.

Nights dawned, days ended.

Fate often swayed the scales.

Words like the sun rose within me.

The unspoken remained unspoken.

***

And horror, and blood, and death, and despair,

And the screech of a predatory horde,

A small gray man

Caused black trouble.

This is a beast of a disgusting breed,

The Loch Ness of the cold Neva.

Where are you looking, peoples?!

Today it's us, and tomorrow – you.