Igor Mitrov: "The war took everything from me"

"The war took everything from me: my home in Crimea, my family, my mental and physical health." Poet and veteran Igor Mitrov talks about the severe crisis of inner resilience and emotional instability following combat. Is it possible to write about love during wartime? Why has the postmodern “game” of poetry come to an end, and why is it time for a “new sincerity”? We discuss how Ukrainian authors are perceived abroad, the writer’s new mission, and why modern Ukrainians are not a “lost” generation but a “rediscovered” one, rediscovering its own identity.

When did you first realize that literature for you isn’t just a hobby, but a way of life? And was there a moment when you said to yourself, “I am a poet”?

Vasyl Stus once wrote something along the lines of: “I don’t consider myself a poet; I consider myself a person who writes poems. Some of them, in my opinion, are decent.” I don’t know when that realization came. I actually started writing poetry in school, but back then it was all so… frivolous. But at the same time, I enrolled in the creative writing program at Kyiv University, so I suppose that’s when some sort of realization had already set in.

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SCREENSHOT: Intent’s YouTube channel

I actually wanted to talk about your studies, because I know you dropped out and then came back—and switched to Russian literature. Why did that happen?

The story is actually pretty funny. It was just easiest for me to take the Unified State Exam in Russian. I did very well on it and decided to take the path of least resistance. I enrolled in Russian studies before this “language cancellation” of Russian culture had begun, and, honestly, I’d really enjoyed Russian literature for a long time. It’s pretty silly to deny that there are so many remarkable literary figures there. But the problem lies precisely in what these literary figures represent. I made the decision to completely distance myself from Russian culture back in 2022, after the full-scale invasion. Before that, I was somewhat influenced by Russian culture. Now, if people speak to me in Russian, I simply say, “I don’t understand you.”

What were you like at 28, when your first collection, *Goliath*, was published? And what would that Igor think of you now?

That Igor wasn’t exactly a very smart person. It’s not a given that this Igor is much smarter, but certain changes have certainly taken place since then. I think that’s why the present-day me would really appeal to that Igor. Well, for some reason, that’s how it seems to me. But that doesn’t mean it’s a good thing.

What trait of yours did you once consider a flaw, but now realize was precisely what made you a poet?

It wasn’t any particular trait that made me a poet. What made me a poet were the works of certain authors I discovered for myself in high school, and that gave me the impetus, the creative momentum.

Which poets, exactly? Can you name them?

They were poets from the Kyiv School—Vasyl Holoborodko, Viktor Kordun. Poets from the New York Group, in particular Yuriy Tarnavsky, Bohdan Boichuk, and Emma Andiyevska. And from abroad—Paul Celan. The latter made a truly enormous impression on me.

When I found these authors’ texts in an anthology, I couldn’t write a single line in Russian anymore. I just couldn’t. Something clicked, and I started writing in Ukrainian. That’s exactly how it happened. I still believe that, fundamentally, Yuriy Tarnavsky made me a Ukrainian poet. Not through stylistic traits, but through the authors themselves.

What are the core themes of Igor Mitrov’s work? Are they the inner pillars you rely on, which you then convey to the world through poetry?

Actually, this is a pretty painful question, because I’m going through a major crisis right now with these so-called inner pillars. Maybe everyone is going through a crisis like this right now, but for me, certain depressive tendencies have developed simply because of the war and my participation in combat operations. I even ended up in the hospital two years ago. In short, I have a real problem with these inner pillars. And to be honest, I have no idea where to find them.

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SCREENSHOT: Intent’s YouTube channel

Your writings are published abroad and translated into English, Spanish, Polish, and other languages. Based on your own feelings or statistics, where do you feel you’re most widely accepted and read? And does the reaction of foreign readers differ from that of Ukrainian readers?

When the full-scale invasion began in 2022, it was a gesture of solidarity from Europeans, and they began very actively translating all of our poets. The Baltic countries and Poland were the first to take the lead in this effort. It seems to me that these texts resonate most strongly there. Because, first of all, this is a story of solidarity, and secondly—a story of shared traumas inflicted on us by Russia. Consequently, the farther away from the border, the less it resonates. Very often, these texts take Europeans out of their comfort zone, which is why our neighbors, of course, respond more actively.

Why do you think this has changed somewhat now? We’re no longer perceived the same way as in the early years of the war.

Of course, some time has passed, things have sort of settled in, and many people have grown weary. But I think this is also specifically tied to the current political climate in various countries: they have their own domestic goals and the demands of their own people. Sometimes these demands don’t align with our narratives, and that’s when a certain kind of populism, information campaigns, and so on begin. But overall, the attitude of ordinary people hasn’t changed.

What has the war taken from you as a poet and as a person, and what, perhaps, has it given you?

Basically, the war took everything from me. My family was torn apart; my home was taken from me —I’m from Crimea myself and haven’t been there since 2014. It robbed me of my mental health, and my physical health as well, actually. But I’ve come to realize the responsibility of literature. I’ve completely rethought my attitude toward literature and the mission of writers, especially in times of war. In other words, I’ve started to take literature in general—and my own writing in particular—more seriously.

If we’re talking about a mission, what do you think it is?

To document what happened to us. To document the heroism of the people who are going through this. To document the enemy’s crimes. To reflect on all of this in my writing and try to answer the questions of what happened to us and how it happened. These are more serious matters.

Does a poet have the right to write about things completely unrelated to war when a war is raging all around?

I think that’s simply impossible. Even if it isn’t immediately apparent, even if the author himself isn’t aware that he’s writing about the war, he’s still doing it one way or another. This can take various forms across different literary genres: some write poetry, others write novels, and still others write fantasy or children’s stories. But the war is still there, and it’s not going anywhere. Or one would have to be completely detached from the Ukrainian context, and in that case, I’d hardly dare call such a person a Ukrainian author.

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SCREENSHOT: Intent’s YouTube channel

Don’t you get the feeling that what’s expected of a writer or poet today is, first and foremost, the right civic stance, and only then—good literature?

It seems to me that these things don’t necessarily have to be mutually exclusive. A civic stance is the duty of all people, not just authors. Authors come in all shapes and sizes, and their artistic levels vary—that’s the history of literature. But when it comes to civic stance, that’s a matter of national and societal importance. Therefore, these things shouldn’t undermine one another.

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SCREENSHOT: Intent’s YouTube channel

And what do you think Ukrainian literature has yet to say about this war?

Who knows? Let’s start with the fact that the war is still going on, and no one really knows when it will end. There still needs to be room for reflection, and we’ll be thinking about, discussing, and making sense of all this for a very long time to come.

You’ve called yourself a postmodernist in the worst sense of the word. What exactly do you mean by “in the worst sense”?

First, we’re living at the turning point of cultural and historical eras. What’s called metamodernism was floating around as mere theoretical speculation in the works of certain philosophers. But in practice, metamodernism began in Ukraine, in Ukrainian literature. Because it is precisely we who are now speaking of an absolutely unique, extraordinary experience. And what is called “new sincerity” originated precisely in our texts.

Up until that point, it was just a game. Postmodernists questioned everything—that whole relativist narrative: if there’s no truth, then you can do and say whatever you want, however you want. But now we understand that we must say what needs to be said, how it needs to be said, and to whom it needs to be said. My earlier works were all about postmodernism—a literary game, playing with other texts, constant mockery. But that’s not possible anymore. It’s just irresponsible.

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SCREENSHOT: Intent’s YouTube channel

Could we say that at first we were “playing around,” but then we were confronted with reality, death, and war, and this led to a rethinking of reality and a shift toward a “new sincerity”?

We were driven to this by the presence of an aggressive neighbor that has sought to destroy us throughout its entire existence. We have, in essence, been fighting it throughout our entire existence—whether on the front lines or in the cultural sphere. Even during the Soviet occupation, Ukrainian cultural resistance continued nonetheless. Now it has taken the form of an armed struggle, but it has always been about defending our boundaries and borders.

We are actually redefining ourselves right now. A colleague and I recently developed the concept of the “rediscovered generation” for one of the festivals—as a counterpoint to the “lost generation.” We are finding ourselves in this war; we are rediscovering our identity. This is evident in both cultural and everyday matters: the widespread shift to the Ukrainian language, and a rethinking of fundamental issues. These individual transformations together make up the transformation of our society as a whole. And we will continue to develop this concept as part of our work, because it’s something worth talking about.

Are there any texts you wrote many years ago that you reread today with the feeling, “This is where I was truly myself”?

Actually, the point is that only the texts you’re not ashamed of remain. The others are simply deleted. Therefore, the ones that remain automatically fall into the category of important, meaningful, and decent. I can read one of the first such texts from 2010, one I’m truly not ashamed of:

At four in the morning, the war will begin,

you’ll cry quietly and go out into the yard,

leaving on the table an unfinished poem,

and a half-empty bottle of wine.

And on the street, gunshots ring out; overhead,

bullets and dead birds will fly past,

and rooftops rush by at breakneck speed,

you prepare your hands for battle.

But your hands go numb; behind your back, they tie you up

and lead you into a car with a red cross,

and the car drives across a rotten bridge,

and the driver says nothing.

The unfinished poem will burn in the fire,

the looters will drink the wine,

your land will be seized meter by meter,

you’ll be honored only posthumously,

the car is plummeting downward.

The car is plummeting; the driver, terrified,

honks the horn.

At four in the morning, the war will begin,

but you’ve already been demobilized.

Did you write that back in 2010? Wow. Was that some kind of premonition?

Well, maybe.

What’s the hardest thing for you to talk about right now—not with the media, but with yourself?

Probably the fact that I’m very emotionally unstable right now. You could even say that I often feel regret. It’s precisely about the inner strength that’s missing.

If you didn’t have to prove anything to anyone right now—neither as a poet, nor as a veteran, nor as a Ukrainian—what would you like to write about?

I once joked: I used to write about alcohol and women, and then something went wrong. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to somehow get back to that point. We’ll see.

It seems to me that your recent poem about Kharkiv is exactly about that.

That text is steeped in war, and I cried while I was writing it...

I remember literary Kharkiv at night,

her velvety leg on my shoulder.

I remember her broken moans

amidst the incessant air raid sirens.

I don’t remember which of these was louder.

That night I wanted to write and read poetry,

but that night my hands and tongue were occupied.

Literary Kharkiv, do you know this?

You do.

Of course you know where to hide the truth.

Raisa Troianker walked these streets,

Johansen and Semenko walked these streets,

and now a drunken, lovesick Mitrov and Co. walk them.

Now he’s fawning over brilliant female poets in doorways

at the end of this summer bombed by the Russians.

Then again, Kharkiv is no stranger to this.

Poets, rockets—Kharkiv has seen it all.

Kharkiv has seen death, sex, and the literary scene.

And here we are again.

And no one can take that away now.

She wraps her thighs around my head.

Kharkiv speaks to me in the language of literature.

You’ve curated the veteran literary scene at festivals. What would you recommend reading on this topic right now?

Actually, Valera Puzik put it very well: you have to read everyone. Don’t single out any one person; on the contrary, try to read as much as possible and give everyone a chance to be heard. I’m currently cataloging all the military literature written by servicemembers and veterans since 2014. There are already nearly 450 books in the collection. Of course, not all of them are of the same literary caliber, but these are important books about our experiences and our shared pain. So read as much as you can find, because this is a unique, extraordinary, and very painful experience.

 

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