Ukraine Poem Analysis: The Ransacked Grave Mound" and "In captivity I count the days and nights Custom Essay

Read the two poems by Taras Shevchenko (“The Ransacked Grave Mound” and “In captivity I count the days and nights “). In the first paragraph of your posting, explain in your own words first poem’s main ideas and analyze it. In the second paragraph of your posting, you will need to analyze second poem. THE RANSACKED GRAVE MOUND Quiet world, land so dear, My Ukraine. Why have you been plundered, Why, mother, are you dying? Have you not prayed to God Before the rising sun, Or have you not taught timid little children Of our customs? “I’ve prayed and been concerned, Day and night I couldn’t sleep, I cared for the little children, Taught them our customs. My flowers have grown Like good children, I ruled once in the wide World… O, Bohdan! Unwise son! Take a look now at your mother, At your Ukraine, That, while lulling, has sung About its lack of good fortune, That singing, sobbed, Looked out for its freedom. O Bohdan, little Bohdan, If I had known, I would have strangled you in the cradle, Put you down under your heart. My steppes, sold out To the Jewish people, to muteness, My sons in a foreign land Working in foreign work. My brother the Dnipro River is drying up, It is forsaking me, And the Muscovites are ransacking Our treasured grave mounds… Let them burrow, dig them up, Looking for something not their own. In the meantime let the werewolves Grow up And help the Muscovites Rule, And take off a patched-up Shirt from their mother, Help, brutes, Torture your mother.” The ransacked grave Is dug up in four spots. What were they looking for there? What did the aged elders Bury there? Aged elders? Eh, if only, If only they would find what is buried there, The children wouldn’t cry, and mothers wouldn’t worry. October 9, 1843 Berezan *** In captivity I count the days and nights, Then lose count. O, Lord. How hard These days drag on. And the years flow between them. They quietly flow by, They take away the good and bad With themselves! They take away, without returning Anything ever! And don’t plead, for your prayer Will be lost on God. And the fourth year passes Quietly, slowly, And I begin to embroider My fourth book in captivity—I embroider My sorrow in a foreign land With blood and tears. For you never can tell Your grief to anyone Ever, ever, Nowhere in the world! There are no words In far-off captivity! There are no words, no tears, No nothing. You don’t even have great God Around you! There is nothing to look at, No one to speak to. You don’t feel like living in the world, But you have to live. I must, I must, but why? Not to lose my soul? It’s not worth this sorrow. To live in the world, to drag These chains in captivity. Maybe some day I’ll still look At my Ukraine… Maybe some day I’ll share My word-tears with Her green oak groves! With her dark meadows! For I have no kin In all of Ukraine. But still, the people aren’t the same As in this foreign land! I’d dance along the Dnipro River Through cheerful villages, And I’d sing my thoughts in songs, Quiet ones, sad ones. Let me live to that day to glance, Dear God, On these green fields, On these steppe graves. If you don’t grant me this, then carry My tears To my land; for I, Lord, I am dying for her! Perhaps it will be easy To lay myself down in this foreign land If from time to time They’ll remember me in Ukraine! Carry my tears there, my Lord! Or at least send hope To my soul… for there is nothing That I can do with my wretched head, For my heart grows cold When I think that perhaps I’ll be buried In a foreign land—and these thoughts in song Will be buried with me. And no one in Ukraine Will remember me! And perhaps quietly after the years My thoughts embroidered by tears Will reach Ukraine Sometime… and fall, Like dew over the land, They will quietly fall Over a sincere young heart! And this heart will bow its head And will weep with me, And, perhaps, Lord, Will remember me in a prayer! Let be what will be. Whether to flow on or wander, At least I’ll be forced into torment! But I’ll quietly embroider These white pages anyway. The First Half of 1850 – Orenburg

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