A New/Old Poem

I wrote this poem almost twenty years ago, but it still feels true today. My heartfelt thanks to the editors of Sum Literary Journal for publishing "Song for a Young Daughter" in their "Dyad" issue.

The Hills Are Alive

When I was a kid, I used to pretend I was Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. Sadly, I'm no great shakes as a singer, though. I don't need a humiliating audition story ('Have you considered taking up knitting, dear?') to confirm this. I've got ears, and I'm smart (and kind) enough not to subject others to a sound that's comparable to a freight train trying to back up over curved and rusted tracks.

When I'm alone, it's a different story. If you can't pretend to be Julie (or Ella Fitzgerald or China Forbes or Patti Smith) when no one's around, then what's the point?

When I was about 11, my family lived in a house with wall-to-wall dark green carpeting (think of a forest floor) and a vast living room that was home to a coffin-sized stereo cabinet. In the cabinet was a turntable as well as my parents' record collection. My favorite albums were the original cast recordings. I loved twirling around the room to My Fair Lady's "I Could Have Danced All Night" or tapping and two-stepping past our TV and our couch to Oklahoma's "Everything's Up to Date in Kansas City." Of course the best -- the absolute best -- was Julie Andrews, as Fraulein Maria, singing "I Have Confidence" in The Sound of Music.

Listening to that song, I could picture the whole scene just as Julie played it in the movie. She was dressed in drooping hand-me-downs and wore a wide-brimmed hat (roughly the same circumference as the largest of Saturn's rings) atop a truly regrettable haircut. And yet Julie, as the world's most famous aspiring sister, stood up straight and swung her carpet bag (moth-eaten probably) all around Salzburg as if she didn't have a care.

Oh, how I could feel those words -- I have con-fee-dence -- as I belted them out along with Julie. Of course in reality I had no con-fee-dence back then (I'm talking about sixth grade here). But the more I sang that glorious line, the more I could feel it in my bones. With the volume on the stereo turned up, I couldn't actually hear my own dissonant notes, but I could feel the reverberations of the words and music in my lungs and ribs and skull, and for a few powerful moments I was ready, like Julie, to take on any challenge.

So yes, I'm a fan of Julie's...so much so that one of my latest publications is a prose poem whose title bears her name. Unfortunately, Julie doesn't fair well in this piece, as it was inspired by a nightmare I once had in which she was held captive by some nasty (and ravenous) wolves.

Many thanks to the editors of Three Drops from the Cauldron for including "Julie" in their Midwinter Special Issue, which you can find by clicking here. And here's to finding creative inspiration and confidence in the most unlikely places this year.

Some Recent Publications

Dear friends,

Here are some of my most recent publications, with links to poetry and prose, fiction and non. From a feminist anthem to a story about swaying elephants in an attic, it was pure joy crafting these pieces!

VoiceCatcher Journal,  "Once I Was" and "Fourth Wave"

Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, "The Garden of the Universe"

Inquietudes Literary Journal, "No Place Like It"

The Poetry Box, "Columbine"

Sonic Boom, "A Letter, with Elephants," click here to read the journal.

Gold Man Review, "A True Gift," a print journal that you can purchase here.

Some Good News

I'm so honored that my poem "Columbine" has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Shawn Aveningo Sanders and Robert Sanders of The Poetry Box. The poem originally appeared in their journal The Poeming Pigeon: In the News this year. 

To read "Columbine," click here.

To purchase a copy of the anthology, click here. 

A New Story

I was so happy to get this beauty in the mail the other day! Inside is my short story, "A True Gift" – a satirical piece involving smoke, a roomful of wigs and one inflated ego. Thank you Gold Man Review!

You can order a copy at here.

No Place Like It

In an old photo taken of our house, a woman wearing a long black dress and a white apron is standing on the porch. Did the first owners of this place have a maid? Hard to imagine, although when I'm scrubbing the toilet, I do sometimes mutter that I feel like Cinderella.

We inherited an album of such photos when we bought the house. Also in the album is a crumbling German newspaper from 1891 (apparently, a previous owner found it in the wall) and a Union Pacific map from the same year.

And what of the indigenous peoples who lived here before that? What is left of them on this patch of land where our house sits? 

In a short lyric essay that was just published by Inquietudes Literary Journal, I ask myself these questions and many more. You can read "No Place Like It" at https://inquietudeslitjournal.weebly.com/issue-2.html.

Creative Memoir by Tetyana Bondarchuk

If spring stirs up thoughts of love, autumn – with its falling leaves, long nights and approaching holidays – tends to stir up memories.

Here’s a poignant memoir by Tetyana Bondarchuk about how a scent can evoke a yearning for the past and the need to embrace the here and now. 

The Smell From Childhood

by Tetyana Bondarchuk

It’s the fragrance of wet, fresh conifer tree wood chips that pulled me out of my meditative morning run through the park and made me slow down on the track, then stop. I looked around. The low morning sun was tangled in the crowns of centuries old giant trees, its weak October rays struggled to get to the ground to dry up the morning dew.

The picnic area of the park was fenced off and contained a few pieces of heavy equipment. One looked like a wood chipper. Suddenly, that wet pile revealed itself as a small hill of freshly chopped wood camouflaged by brown and yellow oak and maple tree leaves. The smell was strong enough to trigger a flashback of a day in the woods with my father in the Ukrainian Polissia, his birthplace.

I saw a 5-foot tall stump and had an urge to go and touch it, run my fingers on its bark, count its rings, but the makeshift stump-and-log fence said “No.” No, you can’t come here, no, you can’t touch us, no, it’s too late for love and sentiments. Just stop and watch us for a minute. And smell. Stop and smell the trees.

The aroma of ether oil, wet moss, grass and ferns, and autumn leaves, floated through the air like an invisible bride’s veil in a breeze and trailed with me as I ran along the path, circling the park, catching my breath and holding it in like I hold on to the memories of my childhood.

About the author: 

Tanya Bondarchuk is Ukrainian. She holds a degree in English and German Languages and Literature. A former translator/interpreter, she has been exploring creative writing since 2012.