The poetry of Ilya Kaminsky is a powerful blend of emotion, silence, and resistance. Born in Ukraine and later immigrating to the United States, Kaminsky brings a unique voice shaped by displacement, war, and his experience of deafness. His poems are not just written words—they are deeply felt moments that explore humanity, love, and political injustice.
His acclaimed collection Deaf Republic presents a haunting narrative of a town that turns silence into rebellion, showing how poetry can speak louder than noise. Through vivid imagery and lyrical storytelling, Kaminsky challenges readers to reflect on their own role in times of crisis.
Whether intimate or political, Kaminsky’s poems invite us to listen—not just with our ears, but with our hearts.
Author’s Prayer
If I speak for the dead, I must leave
this animal of my body,
I must write the same poem over and over,
for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender.
If I speak for them, I must walk on the edge
of myself, I must live as a blind man
who runs through rooms without
touching the furniture.
Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking “What year is it?”
I can dance in my sleep and laugh
in front of the mirror.
Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,
I will praise your madness, and
in a language not mine, speak
of music that wakes us, music
in which we move. For whatever I say
is a kind of petition, and the darkest
days must I praise.
A Cigarette
Watch —
Vasenka citizens do not know they are evidence of happiness
in a time of war,
each is a ripped-out document of laughter.
God,
deaf have something to tell
that not even they can hear —
you will find me, God,
like a dumb pigeon’s beak I am
pecking
every way at astonishment.
If you
climb a roof in the Central Square of a bombarded city, you will see my people and me —
one neighbor thieves a cigarette
another gives a dog
a pint of sunlit beer.
In a Time of Peace
Inhabitant of earth for forty something years
I once found myself in a peaceful country. I watch neighbors open
their phones to watch
a cop demanding a man’s driver’s license. When a man reaches for his wallet, the cop
shoots. Into the car window. Shoots.
It is a peaceful country.
We pocket our phones and go.
To the dentist,
to buy shampoo,
pick up the children from school,
get basil.
Ours is a country in which a boy shot by police lies on the pavement
for hours.
We see in his open mouth
the nakedness
of the whole nation.
We watch. Watch
others watch.
The body of a boy lies on the pavement exactly like the body of a boy.
It is a peaceful country.
And it clips our citizens’ bodies
effortlessly, the way the President’s wife trims her toenails.
All of us
still have to do the hard work of dentist appointments,
of remembering to make
a summer salad: basil, tomatoes, it is a joy, tomatoes, add a little salt.
This is a time of peace.
I do not hear gunshots,
but watch birds splash over the backyards of the suburbs. How bright is the sky
as the avenue spins on its axis.
How bright is the sky (forgive me) how bright.
Gunshot
Our country is the stage.
When soldiers march into town, public assemblies are officially prohibited. But today, neighbors flock to the piano music from Sonya and Alfonso’s puppet show in Central Square. Some of us have climbed up into trees, others hide behind benches and telegraph poles.
When Petya, the deaf boy in the front row, sneezes, the sergeant puppet collapses, shrieking. He stands up again, snorts, shakes his fist at the laughing audience.
An army jeep swerves into the square, disgorging its own Sergeant.
Disperse immediately!
Disperse immediately! the puppet mimics in a wooden falsetto.
Everyone freezes except Petya, who keeps giggling. Someone claps a hand over his mouth. The Sergeant turns toward the boy, raising his finger.
You!
You! the puppet raises a finger.
Sonya watches her puppet, the puppet watches the Sergeant, the Sergeant watches Sonya and Alfonso, but the rest of us watch Petya lean back, gather all the spit in his throat, and launch it at the Sergeant.
The sound we do not hear lifts the gulls off the water.
A Toast
To your voice, a mysterious virtue,
to the 53 bones of one foot, the four dimensions of breathing,
to pine, redwood, sworn-fern, peppermint,
to hyacinth and bluebell lily,
to the train conductor’s donkey on a rope,
to smells of lemons, a boy pissing splendidly against the trees.
Bless each thing on earth until it sickens,
until each ungovernable heart admits: “I confused myself
and yet I loved—and what I loved
I forgot, what I forgot brought glory to my travels,
to you I traveled as close as I dared, Lord.”
After Bombardment, Sonya
I scrub and lather him like a salmon
until he spits
soapy water. "Pig" I smile—
This man smells better than his country
I throw his shoes
and glasses in the air,
take off his t-shirt and socks, and kneel
in honor of Sasha Petrov
who was amputated, in honor of Lesha Vatkii the taken.
I dip a glass in a bath-tub,
drink dirty water.
Soaping together—that
is sacred to me. Washing mouths together.
You can fuck
anyone—but with whom can you sit in water?
And the cuddling up
before sleep!—and back-scratching
in the morning. My back, not yours!
I knew I had caught the fish
and he knew he had been caught.
He sings as I dry his chest & penis
"Sonya, I was a glad man with you—"
Conclusion
In conclusion, the poetry of Ilya Kaminsky stands as a profound reminder of the power of silence, voice, and human resilience. His work, especially in Deaf Republic, challenges readers to confront injustice while embracing empathy and compassion. Through lyrical language and striking imagery, Kaminsky transforms personal and collective struggles into unforgettable poetic experiences. His poems are not only meant to be read but deeply felt, encouraging reflection on society and our place within it. Ultimately, Kaminsky’s poetry leaves a lasting impact, urging us to listen more carefully to the world around us.
