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Let me climb the intellectual bandwagon of Chamara Sumanapala of the Sunday Nation in Sirilanka, to recognize a world literary fact that Taras Shevchenko was the grandfather of literature that paid wholesome tribute to Ukrainian nationalism. In this juncture it has to  be argued that it is ideological shrewdness that has taken Russia to Crimean province of Ukraine but nothing like justifiable law and constitutionalism. Let it also be my opportune time for paying tribute to Taras Shevchenko, as at the same time I pay my homage to Ukrainian literature which is also a cultural symbol of Ukrainian statehood. Just like most of the European gurus of literature and art of his time, Taras Shevchenko received little formal education. The same way Shakespeare and Pushkin as well as Alexander Sholenystisn happened to receive education that was clearly less than what is received by many children around the world today.
Like Lucanos the Greek writer who wrote the biblical gospel according to saint Luke, Taras Shevchenko was Born to parents who were serfs. Taras himself began his life being a slave. He was 24 years a serf. He spent only one fourth of his relatively short life of 47 years as a free man. The same way Miguel Cervantes and Victor Marie Hugo had substantial part of their lives in prison. Nevertheless, this largely self-educated former serf became the headmaster, the guru and fountain of Ukrainian cultural consciousness through his paradigmatic literature written basically in the indigenous Ukrainian language. He was a prototype in this capacity given that no any other writer had made neither intellectual nor even cultural stretch in this direction by that time.
And thus in current Ukraine of today, Taras Shevchenko is a national hero of literature and collective nationalism. But due to the prevailing political tension between Ukraine and Russia, his Bicentenary on March 9, 2014 was marred by hoi polloi of dishonesty ideology and sludge of degenerative politics. For many us who derive pleasure from literature and diverse literary civilizations we join the community of Ukrainians to remember Taras Shevchenko the exemplary of patriotism, Taras Shevchenko the poet as well cultural symbol of complete state of Ukraine.
There is always some common historical experience among the childhood conditions of great writers.  In the same childhood version as Wright, Fydor, Achebe, Nkrumah, Ousmane and many others, Shevchenko was born on March 9, 1814 in Moryntsi, a small village in Central Ukraine. His parents were serfs and therefore Taras was a serf by birth. At the age of eight, he received some lessons from the local Precentor or person who facilitated worshippers at the Church and was introduced to Ukrainian literature, the same way Malcolm X and Richard Wright learned to read and write while in prison. His childhood was miserable as the family was poor. Hard work and acute poverty ate up the lives of the family, and Tara’s mother died so soon when he was nine. His father remarried and the stepmother treated Taras very badly in a neurotic manner. Two years later, Taras’s father also passed away. Just in the same economic dint poverty ate up Karl Marx until the disease known us typhus killed her wife Jenny Westphelian Marx.
The 19th century Russian Empire was largely feudal, Saint Petersburg being the exception, just like the current Moscow. It was the door and the window to the West. Shevchenko’s timely and lucky break in life came when his erratic landlord left for Saint Petersburg, taking his treasured serf with him. Since, Taras had shown some merit and knack as a painter, his landlord sent him to informally learn painting with a master. It was fashionable and couth for a landlord to have a court painter in those days of Europe. However, sorrow had to build the bridges in that through his teacher, Shevchenko met other famous artists. Impressed by the artistic and literary merit of the young and honesty serf, they decided to raise money to buy his freedom out of serfdom. In 1838, Taras Shevchenko became a free man, a free Ukrainian and Free European.
As it goes the classical Marxist adage; freedom gives birth to creativity. It happened only two years later, Taras Shevchenko’s collection of poetry, Kobzar, was published, giving him instant fame like the Achebean bush fire in the harmattan wind. A kobzar is a Ukrainian string instrument and a bard who plays it is also known as a Kobzar. Taras Shevchenko also enjoyed some literary epiphany by coming to be known as Kobzar after the publication of his collection.
He was dutifully speaking of the plight of his people in his language, not only through music, but even poetry. However,  there were unfair and censuring restrictions in publishing books in Ukrainian. But lucky enough, the book had to be published outside Russia.

Shevchenko continued to write and paint without verve. Showing considerable merit in both. In 1845, he wrote ‘My Testament’ which is perhaps his oeuvre and best known work. In his poem, he begs the reader to bury him in his native Ukraine after he dies. Not in Russia. His immense love for the land of his birth is epitomized in these verses. Later, he wrote another memorable and compelling piece, ‘The Dream’, which expresses his dream of a day when all the serfs are free. When Ukraine will be free from Russia. Sadly, Taras Shevchenko came to his demise just a week before this dream was realized in 1861.
Chamara Sumanapala wrote in the Sirilanka Sunday Nation of 16 march 2014 that, Taras lived a free man until 1847 when he was arrested for being a member of a secret organization, Brotherhood of St Cyril and Methodius. He was imprisoned in Saint Petersburg and later banished as a private with the Russian military to Orenburg garrison. He was not to be allowed to read and paint, but his overseers hardly enforced this edict. After Czar Nicholas II died in 1855, he received a pardon in 1857, but was initially not allowed to return to Saint Petersburg. He was however, allowed to return to his native Ukraine. He returned to Saint Petersburg and died there on March 10, 1861, a day after his 47th birthday. Originally buried there, his remains were brought to Ukraine and buried in Kaniv, in a place now known as Taras Hill. The site became a symbol of Ukrainian nationalism. In 1978, an engineer named Oleksa Hirnyk burned himself in protest to what he called the suppression of Ukrainian history, language and culture by the Soviet authorities.
Amber Moons Jan 2014
For a moment I see my reflection in the dark glass

I'm trapped in fog, my mind's murky

With pieces of disconcerting thoughts

Lost and wandering in thin air

Caught in the middle of empty space

Sadness sends a company

Telling me same bad news

How unfortunate these dreams are

How ridiculous these feelings now

Censuring my own beliefs

Laughing at these wondrous desires

But as my time does breathe

And as my footsteps recognize their paths

You'll picture my stoic face

My head will point to the sky

Here you can't break me

Nothing in my mask will sag

I will not cry until you tell me

I'm hopeless
You don't need all the negativity
that you keep giving yourself.
  You don't need anyone but yourself.
  You need to shape up and start
living your life again.
  You feel a lot.
  And that's okay.
  Stop censuring your words girl.
  Words are meant to be spoken.
  Speak Your Mind.
  If you don't, what good will
come of your thoughts?
  Why let fear control your life?
  Even if you want everyone to
be happy, there's a chance it won't
happen.
  If you have days when you don't
want to be happy, don't others
deserve the same liberty and freedom?
  The answer is yes.
  Yes, they do.
  Even though you like to say
impossible is nothing.
  Even though, not as much now,
you try to strive towards making
the impossible, possible.
  It may be better to strive to
work within the realm of possibility.
2/21/14
You can write your life in elegies, the culture still remains the same
Some say we can make the truth or zero-knowledge from song and dance
Old and aged, insatiable and satiate our addictions lancing us on horses hedonistic
If I were a psychiatrist I'd read you, talk of zero summers, in Hebrew biopsy and medicines, a free think of hope, dangerous thing
But, soon wildflowers will be writing about you makes it worth selling, trouble bed's made and occupied by ***** and mead
If I were a state of mind, I'd be a person of my lines of stares
I write these as an essay on the highs of cultural expression, Tanks can also be a form of cultural expression
Maybe it's oppression on the fire of the year of ten soldiers on the freedom of the nightlight and lively likeness if we were searching for lost gold
It's a way we write about the memories and have free will and fears too, truant about freedom often losing courage and killing kings, queens often make out of it really sad
Rarely, raffle, rabble fiefdom, caviling censuring frenetic energy, virile yelling, on the catatonic hall in the cat in the LA Alhambra hall, or maybe souls pass in that dark hall
It is in the falling stars, into the years as they go by on the fault line of insatiate desires, burning fires in the circles of hell
Arriving in this Le suiva drama or friends in our pallbearers of different friends married to different soulS
Hangovers and everything, black and blue, white and black I cannot tell that the kitten is following in its the prologue of lithe likewise following the battered suitcases on the ways, and long ago
Something like this friendship and relations, festering autumn, seasons change and the summers brings the music of the piano man, Billy Joel
Plays in the freedom that reeks of freedom in the hallway, reflecting in the drunk cigarettes, starched shirts often come in the forum of swarth men, in the frescoed building painted with freewill to achieve
Heights for freewill and tumescence in tempestuous objectivity, of how we look at life, grades of herons, Freud's animals degraded in this foxtail, a plant across the house
In yonder tempered mental gaze, it's struggling to solve these worlds in fewer drinks and more works
Works offered their dreams, we offer the night terrors and midnight mistreatment
Treatize odyssey, riches to rags, muses can call me in my sleep and leave me out wry
Dry
Inside the box of dreams contingent to divergent nightmares
In the confines of a large painting and solitude and suns
You smell the beauty of her soluble features in the eyes as one
Does it do to have a surplus of truth
The ego of driving id letting your inner self spasm without word's worth and worthiness
Relate to someone, whose heights you must torch and focus on oh so much
Buffering winds and engulfing flames, and paint of wolf and werewolves
The moist stench of inventiveness and red veritas of the current year, in the current art of the raw and cooked
Often, thousands of years could be prepared, before you learn a decade of failure, brewing strangely
Decadence doesn't exist in this defined structure wither the body withers in song and dance
Sundry and adamantine guillotines do sew her flesh in hatchets, axes, and bows
Arches and gallantry of cavalry in a dither and dearth dense censuring, of diseased purgatory
Looking at yourself beyond the riches, and rags to ditches.
So, this is a failure to communicate. Well, I'll take history any day.
Living in the metropolis of tumescence of vast objectivity
Rabbles and roads and rolling ditches, some damsel being diminutive
Rambunctious raucous youths of roaring tigers in rearing farms
Raging lions in the rhapsody of bellicose bullish belligerence like diction
A corporeal of positively rhapsodic feeling ****** with George and gorges, protean germinus
The syllabi of syllogisms and schisms and oysters smitten truth and hidden haikus
Forsakes scientific fact and *****-shriveling act perniciously for thespian spring fixes
Invectives, ice, and censuring fornicate in an intermittent visceral vision of eternal springs
Of attainable wisdom willfully stirs the ***
Inferrable this clear existence in this penetrable mind can be called pleasant and puerile
Unperturbed and undulating do not work together unless zaftig and scrumptious like scones on summer sign
About your corsets strangulating and stifling your instincts' seceding their senses to the serene providence
Adumbrating the vacillating mind of a God-like might
Stagnancy stoking storied sullen somnambulant sadistically serried, Zeus caring and giving
Dreaming is a pain, dreaming is a chain
But, not in a maiden's caregiving nature
It isn't rudimentary to eat at each letter of this basal dictionary, as words expand in the context
Like the word is word, so spread it and mean it
Just like your legs, just to make sure that the words don't hurt
****, Love. **** Happens
Muskan Purohit Dec 2019
I grew up watching and listening to fairy tales ,
and movies of innocent love .
But things changed ,
when I entered my teenage .

I always learnt that real queens fix each other's crown ,
but today , when I look around ,
all I can see is ,
girls trying to put each other down .

I see boys having lust to cherish all the girl's body ,
rather than one's inner beauty .
Where are those caring prince charmings ,
who sticks to one girl ?

I see precocious children ,
the children whose mental attitude is developed beyond their ages .
The ones who treat the innocent ones acidly ,
all they fancy about is ,
how to ruin someone's life .
Where's kindness ? Where's humanity ?

Even home don't feel like sweet home .
And what all these kids feel is ,
loneliness and homelessness .
Why so ?
Where are those chuckles and laughter of family members in the home ?
Where's heartiness ?
Because all I get to see around is ,
parents behaving snappishly ,
and , ignoring their kids getting disconcerted by this .

I see brothers fighting like foes over the money of the people who whelped them .
Then , I see people censuring them ,
without having proper knowledge about the things going on .
I see people supporting tyranny with graces and glories .
They only do this for fun , right ?
But what about humbleness ?

This rage and brutish behavior will take this world nowhere .
So , I still sit under the sky of full of stars ,
and , glance furtively .
I try not to weep over trifles ,
I know this world is worn out ,
and thinking about all this ,
makes me feel woeful .

Sometimes , I groan ,
because I'm not valiant .
And my cowardice nature ,
don't let me blaze forth .
I think about making a change ,
I think about being a change .
But I don't know if I'm worth it ,
I don't know if it's necessary to have a poetic license for it .

I honestly don't know if I should adapt all this or ,
put on my gay dress to gallivant .
So , I walk , stumbling and timidly and with agitation , unwillingly , like an impassive child .
So , when someone will look around ,
and notice me ,
they'll just find me a crazy and daft child .

I really don't know what's going on right now !
Because I can't see anything beautiful happening ,
maybe this world is turning into something very different !
I honestly have no motivation to post here because I'm not getting any attention and no one even really reads my poetry but I'm still trying to post one everyday :))
migayle ocuaman Jul 2019
this men who are myopic in vision,
narrow minded in their thoughts,
have begun to make incisions for division
who with greed for power still plots,

they who are full of spite,
they who abuse such prosperity,
to scorn at our tranquility in the night,
using their given rank as authority,

those who corrupt and continue to corrupt,
censuring the emotions of the people,
Our true feelings shall bound to erupt.

hearts they have afflicted and subjugated,
have now planted the seeds of discord,
from these seed shall grow a twisted tree,
it shall bear poisoned fruit and rotten in scent,
they shall reap from it a death of a future generation,
and that field shall be the ruin of the nation.

— The End —