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A man with an expansive heart and a soul dedicated to the wind and the sea, Pavlo Gulevatyi is an unconditional romantic who finds beauty and profound meaning within the natural elements. His multifaceted personality and delicate inner architecture grant him a unique philosophical lens. He inhabits a self-contained universe—a parallel reality with its own distinct forms—which he brings to life through both evocative paintings and poignant verse.

Within the Ukrainian community in Wales, many know Pavlo as an artist whose canvases breathe with the freedom of sails, vast horizons, and the shimmer of sunlight on the water. Today, however, we invite you to explore the depths of his literary craft.

Ukrainian poet and artist Pavlo Gulevatyi

Never giving up with his soul dedicated to sea and wind

For most of his life, Pavlo called Kharkiv home. Like many from his region, he had always written in russian, placing a profound, sincere faith in the power of the word. However, that faith was shattered at the very onset of russian aggression. He found that his words no longer reached their mark; they had become an impossible bridge for conveying the truth. For a long time, Pavlo hesitated, wondering if his native Ukrainian would truly open to him—questioning if he could capture its subtle nuances or if he possessed the depth to express his intricate imagery. Yet, the language did open its heart. The words resonated, the depth was found, and his thoughts began to flow in rhyme.

His free verse from the collection “Golder than Gold” is saturated with deep philosophy. It explores the contrasts between the internal and external, and a solitude that—rather than bringing sadness—serves as a wellspring of wisdom and sensitivity. His work dwells on the vulnerability of the small and the wild, permeated by the “alchemy of gold” and themes of Transformation, Transcendence, and Light as Substance.

These poems feel as though they were forged by a “Blacksmith-Philosopher”—one who takes the heavy, cold metal of reality and hammers it into something delicate, golden, and protective.

Pavlo’s verse operates on the threshold between the divine and the domestic, acting as an Alchemy of the Mundane. Through his lens, ordinary life undergoes a “golden” transformation: liquid gold and glowing pollen become symbols of a spiritual wealth that remains unyielding, even when the external world grows cold. He treats solitude not as a void, but as a raw material—something to be forged into protective “branches” for the vulnerable.

This sense of Sacred Protection permeates his work, where the soul is shielded from a harsh “astral tribunal” by the presence of parents, animals, and even weary angels. Ultimately, the collection celebrates a Holy Folly, a spiritual willingness to find “more-than-golden” beauty in the simplest of places—whether in a red flower lost to the tides or the quiet breath of a dog at one’s feet.

After a long silence, Pavlo’s thoughts have finally found their home in the Ukrainian language. These verses represent more than just poetry; they are a reclamation of identity and a testament to the power of the word to heal and transform. We invite you to experience a selection of these moving works:

Editorial note: The following poems are excerpts from the author’s collection. All imagery and wording belong solely to the poet.

Golder than gold

***
I build a house on the seashore,
yet the sea turns into ice.
A titmouse snaps the final match,
And still, you do not come.
The apples bruise their heavy sides.
Wasps bite deep into greedy blushes.
With a sharp blade,
I carve away the flesh that is unblemished.
The cider gathers strength.
It babbles on—who knows what nonsense—
beneath an antediluvian cloak,
preparing to treat the clever ones
as if they were but fools.
To tickle with its bubbles
the parched throats of idle talkers.
To strike the nose,
spreading like amber over mustaches
already ennobled by their place beside the hearth.
Stripping bare within the glints,
the humbled space recoils,
and for the timid master of these dainties,
within a treacherous mirage
for tempting fate with common,
simple words— there, there, she’ll appear, casting
the sweet lure of a siren,
till she births
a heart turned inside out.
But one must still the hissing gold—free
from wavering reflections
in the emerald of bottles—until your arrival,
and then—no trouble with anyone at all!

***
Let the one who lives, rejoice,
and let the one who died, instruct the angels
how to guard even more keenly those who rejoice—
if they are not subhuman
and do not grovel before such,
but hold to their own path,
as the word is held by the one
who knows
whose
it will be.

***
To Viktor Koryahin

Should I one day become a smith—
I shall entwine all space
with the lines of your loneliness:
let it grow wiser.
Let it grow more vulnerable,
a burden to possession,
a tremor to the wind.
By such shifts let it swirl and eddy,
so that for the titmouse’s fledglings
it acts like branches,
for the wanderer and the vastness—
if but a faint solace,
at least it does no harm.
For yourself, you will
accomplish nothing anyway.

Should I turn to smithing to seek my fortune—
there will be much to ponder,
much to help the titmouse with.
She flits about, a preoccupied mite,
whistling for her brood, comforting with crumbs.
Eat, you witless ones, chirp,
do not fear the man.
As for the others—perhaps they will not crave—
to break themselves against these forged coils
for the sake of some clever prey;
they will disdain it.

The swallows, flying past,
will wonder what these signs might be.
What kind of milestones these are, so unthreatening.
But these are the lines
of your loneliness that cannot fly apart,
Nor join the flock.
They are afraid, oh so afraid, being bent in the fire:
to sleep through the cradle,
to dispossess the green fledglings,
to turn into a fence.

Strange, they will say. Toward the light—how can one not swerve,
when the darkness vexes with its scorn,
thinking, the fool, that she is all-powerful.
But she will grow wiser, the clawed one;
having braved us, she will begin to flirt.
Not painfully, but only so that upon the tanned skin
a trace remains, to catch the hands,
from the arched back to lick a salty drop, like a bead of dew.
Burn, fire. Life is long.

***
Tied by a branch
to the flock of birds,
I nudge aside my angel
as I lie down at the edge
if only mother would appear in a dream
and say, ah—
father and I pulled you from the bottom of the sea
not to surrender you
to the tribunal of the astral.
will anyone pray for such a one
in their absence?
A cat at my side and a dog at my feet
on a stranger’s couch, they feel like my own
and the bliss of this far-gone trio
is not from the potion in our blood.

***
A white dog drinks the golden water
and the gold does not diminish
she drinks and drinks, never enough—
it happens, I guess.
A white dog walks across golden sand,
more golden than gold itself—
well, what’s so strange in that?
But you’re already on the verge of tears,
clinging like a snail, now to me,
now to the pourer of ingots.
Even I am weary of being
among strangers,
especially in summer.
I will stay with you,
drawn upon the sand,
reflected in the water—
playing the fool for the King of Heaven,
dressing myself in golden hairs.
My golden-winged guardian,
show some respect, join the company;
we have drinks with us
and you will be given breast milk
impregnated by the Holy Spirit
Urania,
No matter that her eyes are welling too, that little fool;
for the sake of such luxury—it was worth
not sparing
the figure.

***
She walked along the market square
And stopped beside the flower stall.
Upon her legs, the golden pollen glowed,
And at her hip, carnations swayed.
I do not know if she was the fairest girl
Or not—but her blue eyes were wondrous!
And if you are lucky, on a fair and sunny day,
To lose a red carnation in the sea,
You will understand me.

***
The old man was warmed
by thought of the boy,
and the boy
by thought of the old man.

The sea will not clothe
or feed anyone
if people will not be warmed
by thoughts of one another.

And although the big fish
always goes to the sharks,
devotion
is more enviable than possession.

Smart guy, you call her blind? —
then go and try to discern:
which of them is the old man?
which is the boy?
which is the sea?

And you will see
how rich
one can be who,
even in sleep, bathes
a little, trusting,
five-fingered crucian carp
in his hard palm

Pavlo is currently presenting several poems from the “Golder than Gold” collection at a student talent show. I am delighted that his original voice will now reach the local community, and I hope his work finds a deep resonance with this new audience.

For those who wish to dive deeper into the multifaceted world of Pavlo Gulevatyi, we invite you to explore his work through the following links:

Paintings by Pavlo Gulevatyi

Golder than gold poetry in Ukrainian

By Dariia Zhdanova for Ukrainians in Wales. 

Photos, paintings and poems © Pavlo Gulevatyi. Published with permission.