Peaceful Atom: catastrophic poetry as the chronicle of a new normal

Contemporary Ukrainian poetry is full of anticipation of catastrophe. From the ‘peaceful atom’ that went out of control at the Chornobyl Nuclear Power Plant in 1986 to Russia’s current ‘non-peaceful atom’ directed against Ukraine, it has documented the emotional experiences and complicity of living in independent, post-Soviet Ukraine. The economic hardships of the 1990s, the confusion of the 2000s, revolutionary struggles and the war that has been going on since 2010 were not the most comfortable conditions for creativity, especially in a country where poetry has always been more than just literature. Taras Shevchenko, Ukraine’s greatest Romantic poet of the 19th century, is not only central to the nation’s literary canon but also embodies the core of its national identity. He stands alongside political, military and scientific leaders as a symbol of Ukraine’s heritage. Ukrainians take pride in the fact that their currency, the hryvnia, features portraits of poets – a detail they love to share with foreigners, emphasising that they are ‘the most poetic nation in the world’. Unfortunately, poets don’t grace our banknotes because Ukraine is an ideal place for poetic creation, but rather because, throughout history, they have often been the ones defending our national identity and culture. That’s why our enemies killed poets first when they took over our lands. This happened in the 1930s when Stalin came to power in the Soviet Union. It happened again in the 1960s and 1970s when Ukrainian poets who dared to say too much in their verses found themselves in Siberian prison camps. Today, Ukrainian poets die on the battlefields of the Russo-Ukrainian war, continuing this catastrophic cultural ‘tradition’, from which there seems to be no escape.

This may sound as if contemporary Ukrainian poetry, which builds upon a tradition constantly disrupted and drained of blood, doesn’t have the opportunity to reveal its full potential. However, in reality, today it is stronger than ever. Its nuclear charge warms our entire literature, pushing us toward the frontier of complex topics and the search for new modes of expression, if not formal, then thematic ones.

Indeed, what has really changed in poetry since the mid-20th century? Can we say that poetry written, for example, after the Beats, has introduced any truly new conventions of poetic expression? It seems that at some point Western culture (in the broad sense of the term) froze. It has become trendy to mock what Francis Fukuyama wrote about the ‘end of history,’ but with hindsight, his theory seems reasonable. The poets of the Black Mountain, the Beats and the Polish followers of American poet Frank O’Hara showed us that poetic form had already been deconstructed to the point where any text organised into verse could be considered legitimate poetry. Not that this hadn’t happened before, but after these poets, we received a new convention that is now established and can no longer be challenged or removed from the poetic toolkit.

Because Ukraine has historically been on the periphery, trends prevalent in the broader West have reached us late. This was evident during the Baroque era and again with postmodern practices, which only emerged here as the Soviet system started to collapse. It is no surprise that Fukuyama’s famous book was published in 1992 when it seemed obvious that the Cold War was over and that liberal democracy would soon sweep across Europe and beyond. The Iron Curtain had fallen, and Ukrainian culture, including its poetry, had to catch up quickly. Our ‘end of history’ came late and required immediate reflection. Ukrainian poetry of the 1990s and 2000s was a kaleidoscope of various styles, techniques, moods and new topics. We had never felt more strongly that we were living in an ‘end of history’ moment than during this time. Poetry collections and anthologies featured free verse in the style of Czesław Miłosz, neo-avant-garde and neo-modernist experiments, and stylisations of Baroque or folk naive writing. The entire history of world culture was laid out on the shelves – take whatever you need for your play. We are no longer in a hurry – we’ve already reached the finish line.

But how long could this last? It could have lasted forever if Fukuyama had been right, but he wasn’t. The Cold War hasn’t just returned; it now coexists with the hot war that is ongoing in Ukraine. It has spread throughout our literature like a bright green radioactive liquid, resurrecting the phantom pains of 1986. Today, we live in a world of daily nuclear threats, once only heard in stories from parents who witnessed the Cuban Missile Crisis, reminding us that the ‘nuclear’ has been with us from the very beginning.

The war and its extreme threats (such as the threat of nuclear war, which I hope never happens) have become a rallying point for Ukrainian poetry. In the world after 2022, the entropic states of the ‘end of history’ seem incredibly outdated and irrelevant, because history is still moving forward. It’s hard to take poetry that fantasises about ‘normal life’ seriously when the world outside your window has lost all parameters of normality. At this moment, we’re inventing the concept of a ‘new normality’ to integrate war into everyday life, to ‘normalise’ it by accepting the fact that it’s here and it will stay for a long time. You can’t just cut it out of poetry, because that would make it insincere, and the demand for sincerity is enormous. Along with this demand, the need for irony, which dominated poetry over the past decades and paralysed some authors’ ability to express important things directly and seriously has largely disappeared. It demands empathy and understanding through which collective unity is expressed. Non-fiction poetry, especially by authors on the front lines, despite its sparse way of capturing facts, easily evokes strong emotions in readers because the experiences described in these texts begin to play the role of universally understood elements that don’t need additional dramatisation.

Of course, alongside combatant poetry and poems describing the experiences of those on the home front, the Ukrainian information space has also been flooded with gigabytes of sentimental patriotic lyrics modelled after Taras Shevchenko or other Ukrainian classics. This type of poetry is unlikely to be remembered in the history of literature, but its therapeutic value for many of its authors and readers is undeniable. On the other hand, the widespread presence of war poetry actually indicates the emergence of a new thematic convention in Ukraine. Now we’re all writing about the war, and this solidarity unexpectedly pulls us out of the ‘end of poetic history’ state, which allowed everyone to exist in their own bubble. Today, these bubbles are linked by universal bonds, creating a resilient structure.

I’ve always been fascinated by practical futurology. Mostly because scenarios that are spoken aloud – hyperbolised, pushed to the extreme with dramatic events – never quite unfold the way they are imagined. This act of articulation seems to drain the energy from an event that might have occurred under different conditions. But is it really possible to exhaust all the energy from a split atom? In 1981, Jean Baudrillard wrote about ‘nuclear’ as part of a system of ‘deterrence’ and the regulation of global balance: ‘It’s not the direct threat of nuclear destruction that paralyses our lives – it’s deterrence. And this deterrence comes from the fact that even the most real nuclear collision is ruled out – it’s excluded in advance as a possible reality in the system of signs. Everyone pretends to believe in the reality of this threat, but it’s precisely at this level that strategic objectives are absent, and the originality of the situation lies in the improbability of destruction.’

I wonder what Baudrillard would say if he saw the current state of geopolitics. As I write these lines, memes about nuclear escalation are spreading through social networks, with people joking about it within the logic of Baudrillard’s ‘simulation’. His ‘improbability of destruction’ aligns well with the ‘end of history’ position, in which everything is frozen and has lost any potential for change. But as we’ve already established, Ukraine has become the epicentre of movement and the creation of a new history, where the most unpredictable situations can arise – and art loves the unpredictable. Poetry is the art of placing words that have never stood next to each other, creating a sense of unpredictability that gives us an intuitive understanding of the present moment and the near future.

In 2018, before Russia launched its full-scale war against Ukraine, I wrote an almost Dadaist poem in which a civil defence handbook gradually merges with the Book of Revelation. Back then, it felt like an anxious fantasy, but now it reads differently. I wonder how it will be read when we transition into a world of the ‘peaceful atom’ and the need for a new poetry convention arises again.

***

From: Civil Defence Headquarters
To: State Emergency Service departments
the management of the fire emergency
rescue and medical departments
instruction for internal use

all the types of urban communication
are overloaded by the end of the day
all the central arteries
are paralysed by the traffic jams

the most probable explosive power
is two to ten megatons
more powerful charges are limited
by the transport capacity

I am your brother and companion in tribulation
and in the kingdom
and patience
was in the isle that is called Patmos
for the others’ testimony

when the alarm is sounded
those who are not provided with shelter
should act on their own

if your house has a basement
you should hide there
fill the gaps around the doors
with white fabric

his head and his hairs were white
like wool
as white as snow
and his eyes were as a flame of fire
and his feet like unto fine brass
as if they burned in a furnace
and his voice
as the sound of many waters

you should stock up on water
all the passages to the metro
are closed immediately
after the alarm
the metro is
the best of all shelters

and the heaven departed
as a scroll
when a magazine is rolled together
and every mountain
and island
were moved out of their places

and the kings of the earth
and the great men and the rich men
and the chief captains and the mighty men
and every bondman and every free man
hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains

all the escalators are descending
after all the citizens are brought to the platform
all the escalators are turned off

the station staff turn on
the energy saving mode
the trains caught in the open
move into the tunnels
if possible

for the great day of his wrath is come
and who shall be able to stand

there fell a great star from heaven
in 0.03–0.04 seconds it will
turn into a blinding sphere
1.5–2 km in diameter
with the temperature of 10–20 million degrees

and it fell upon the third part of the rivers
and upon the fountains of waters
and as it were a great mountain
burning with fire
was cast into the sea
and the third part of the sea became blood

within a radius of 20–25 km everything blazes up
wooden
plastic
painted surfaces
plants
metal hatches burn
concrete melts
bricks
glass
metal
stones
window frames burn out
asphalt concrete blazes up
and the third part of the creatures which are in the sea and have life
dies
and the third part of the ships are destroyed

the third part of the sun is smitten
and the third part of the moon and the third part of the stars
so as the third part of them was darkened
and the day shone not for a third part of it
and the night likewise

the optical density of the atmosphere
will be multiplied by seven
and whosoever was not found written in the book of life
will be cast into the lake of fire

the radiation background will hinder the emergency services
they will have to wait for 20–25 days
except for the operations of high importance
epicentre
crater
2 kilometres in diameter

and the building of the wall of it was of jasper
and the city was pure gold
and had no need of the sun
or of the moon
to shine on it

blessed are they
that obey his commandments
that they may have right to the tree of life
for without are dogs and sorcerers
and whoremongers
and murderers
and idolaters
and whosoever
loveth and maketh a lie

(Translated from Ukrainian by Ella Yevtushenko)