Ukrainians’ beloved author is celebrating his 50th birthday, while I am marking my 20 years as a keen reader. Our tribute explores themes of poetry and stadiums, the fractures of time, and timeless values of unity. Read this alongside the songs of Stepan Halyabarda.
“Should a great poet fill stadiums?” I asked Serhiy Zhadan in my first interview with him back in 2010.
“Stadiums should be filled by a good football team,” he replied with a joke. Yet, 14 years later, he did just that—filled a stadium. Not with a football team or even the Dogs music band, but with poetry. Well, not just poetry, but something even more than that.
Yes, it was a historic event—a first for Ukrainian poetry. This May, over 6,000 people gathered at the Kyiv Sports Palace for Zhadan’s poetry evening. This achievement reflects Serhiy’s years of intense, daily work, his extraordinary willpower, determination, expansive vision, and undeniable charisma. And, of course, his talent.
Zhadan truly brings people together. Remember the iconic Nokia slogan, “Connecting People”? It’s a fitting description for his gatherings — the ones where everyone is one family. When I attend his readings, it’s not just about the poetry—it’s also about connecting with the incredible people who share this experience.
Because that’s what unites us: a deep love for his poetry and for poetry in general. It’s about values, persistence, and an unshakable belief that this effort is not in vain. We take pride in what modern Ukrainian culture can achieve while feeling the pain of what is happening to our cities and the losses and understanding that our struggle is far from over.
It’s a bubble, but it’s remarkable when that bubble expands to the size of stadiums. Our values, for which this war is fought, are reflected in this. And on a personal note, it’s painful that we can’t attend Zhadan’s poetry evenings as often now.
I’ve been following my favourite author for twenty years, ever since the launch of Depeche Mode at my alma mater, the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy (I’ll be marking my reading journey anniversary this autumn). I’ve always been inspired by Serhiy’s ability to bring together remarkable people, his writing, and his meticulous approach to every aspect of his work. Now, he’s taken on Radio Khartiia —nomadic like Skovoroda, both mobile and mobilized. It’s a platform “about the army that defends its country and the country that supports its army,” reflecting what matters most right now.
His determination is both inspiring and impactful. I recall the early days of the Dogs band concerts when the audience mostly knew one another. Now, it’s exciting to hear drunk kids singing their songs under my windows instead of Russian rock. This is just as it should be, with Ukrainian music and language reaching every corner—from funerals to discos, from bars to operas. I’m proud that, 12 years ago, when I was the culture section editor, we hosted the premieres of songs from the Zbroia Proletariatu album on our website through my admin account. Today, Dogs are headlining major festivals and selling the drummer’s new girlfriend’sboots at concerts for tens of thousands of hryvnias—to support the Armed Forces of Ukraine.
For all the jokes about my admiration for Zhadan, I have my comebacks.
When they call me a “fangirl,” I respond with his own words: “Not a fangirl, but a reader.” When the comments get excessive, I counter with, “Not a harem, but a pride!”—as befits lions. And when I come to work and find that my colleagues have hung a portrait of Serhiy Viktorovych in an embroidered towel above my desk, I leave it there.
The truth is, I’m learning from him—how to write, how to be a writer, how to engage with readers and the media, and how to keep moving forward with relentless energy. He is my role model.
At his events, I’ve met incredible people—some have become my closest friends, while others continue to inspire me from afar. What unites them is their talent and drive. I cherish people like that. It was a pleasure to see, during breaks between readings at the Sports Palace, friends discussing grants for cultural projects and volunteer initiatives.
These people are the heroes of his poetry and prose—active, driven, and carrying their own burdens. They all remember that “despair is evil” and that “joy is something you fight for.” And, like me, they believe that “happiness cannot be avoided.”
However, I must also mention the poems because, above all, it’s about the poetry
This poetry deserves more than stadiums, though our stadiums are only beginning to rise to that level. What impresses me most about Zhadan’s earlier work is how remarkably it anticipated and foresaw so much. Just reread them and see.
As for his newer texts, they invite you to delve deeper. They reveal fresh insights, a tangible sense of matter, the tremors of time, and the fractures of space.
Zhadan’s poems are like guides for navigating a world shaped by whispers and yearning. They evoke the beauty of vertebrae on a woman’s back, rising like islands from the primordial ocean after the world’s creation. This is poetry that resonates deep within us. I know some of his poems by heart, yet I can listen to them endlessly. It’s akin to how children cherish their favourite story—finding comfort in repetition and recognition. Perhaps it’s the sense of something enduring amid a shifting and unsettling world. Something both beautiful and fragile. It’s become familiar as the rhythms of these poems echo the beat of our own hearts. We live with them, like the steady tick of a clock in our language—a language we speak, think in, remain silent with, and love, both now and in the past. It’s a language for which we are fighting a war. A language that will not be silenced.
Why do we love Zhadan so much? It’s his sharp vision and concise expression, his humour, and his playful edge that sometimes borders on daring. At the same time, there is a deep lyricism—how does he capture so much about us?
How does he know that women “boil months in the kitchen like cheeses and that every month has its own corner among knives, drawers, and scales”? How does he understand that “she doesn’t wake up only because she fears, upon waking, not to see him beside her”? How does he know that someone on duty will surely receive a new rank just from checking her pockets? I can only wonder.
I’m grateful to him for many reasons. For instance, when you fall asleep on a train, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels becomes a mantra: “South-Western Railway, three in the morning, an hour before dawn, with two carriages, one conductor manages the movement.” I also appreciate this autumn of ice and steel, the imagery of a “sun—honey mixed with glass, and clay—moulded from moisture and poison.” And for the profound, alchemical insights into the nature of the world and what keeps it together.
I am thankful to Serhiy for the richness of his words in my life, for the graffiti outside my window that reads, “To those who love, enough is memory,” and for the feeling of reading his new poems, which always seem to speak directly to me.
