Helga Olshvang
translated from the Russian by Alexandra Landauer
***
Interior. Evening.
Through the window is seen
One side, then the next,
The bullfinch
Perched on the elm, and the snow
Floating up
As a lasting hymn.
***
Hold on to the rail
The way the old man holds
His own hand.
The way the dimming lamp
Is held by the coal miner, descending.
The way a child holds a stuffed paw
And the fool clings to his petty truth
As a hammock to its tree trunk.
Hold On.
The subway makes equal
Those awake and dormant
Beggars and wanderers
Lovers and witnesses, all
Strangers in rows,
And the dead
Earnestly staring back
From their trembling void.
***
When my eyes grow accustomed to death, there,
As in a dark room,
I will determine by the contours of the shadows
Familiar objects, east and west,
And down my neck will roll
As fear under the helmet of the deep-diver
The ocean.
There, in the enormous trap,
Flooded to the ceiling,
I will bestow my wordless praise to fate
For its unceasing plots
Which I do not deserve.
Kolomenskoye Bound
Across from me, with half-closed lids,
Hands folded, a tin bucket,
Raspberries under a cheesecloth,
The subway begins to move with her.
The train departs
And all of her longings become
Lost from sight, fulfilled.
In childhood – sugar,
In youth – an officer,
A dress, more plywood,
An added room,
With buttons down the back,
A fur coat, keeping her parents nearby,
Keeping warm.
A test pilot sounded better than
A deadbeat and so she answered,
Time after time to her son,
Until one day,
She believed it herself.
Coming of age:
Ashes remained of the home,
Name on stone – of her son.
He flew off to visit and stayed.
Both pilots are waving
To me, to her.
Slowing, the train,
Entering midday,
Roars.
Local route, the unknown old woman across
With her berries,
Enveloped in light.
Should I have called out to ask
Her forgiveness
For all that was?
She dozes,
She won’t hear a thing.
translated from the Russian by Alexandra Landauer
***
Interior. Evening.
Through the window is seen
One side, then the next,
The bullfinch
Perched on the elm, and the snow
Floating up
As a lasting hymn.
***
Hold on to the rail
The way the old man holds
His own hand.
The way the dimming lamp
Is held by the coal miner, descending.
The way a child holds a stuffed paw
And the fool clings to his petty truth
As a hammock to its tree trunk.
Hold On.
The subway makes equal
Those awake and dormant
Beggars and wanderers
Lovers and witnesses, all
Strangers in rows,
And the dead
Earnestly staring back
From their trembling void.
***
When my eyes grow accustomed to death, there,
As in a dark room,
I will determine by the contours of the shadows
Familiar objects, east and west,
And down my neck will roll
As fear under the helmet of the deep-diver
The ocean.
There, in the enormous trap,
Flooded to the ceiling,
I will bestow my wordless praise to fate
For its unceasing plots
Which I do not deserve.
Kolomenskoye Bound
Across from me, with half-closed lids,
Hands folded, a tin bucket,
Raspberries under a cheesecloth,
The subway begins to move with her.
The train departs
And all of her longings become
Lost from sight, fulfilled.
In childhood – sugar,
In youth – an officer,
A dress, more plywood,
An added room,
With buttons down the back,
A fur coat, keeping her parents nearby,
Keeping warm.
A test pilot sounded better than
A deadbeat and so she answered,
Time after time to her son,
Until one day,
She believed it herself.
Coming of age:
Ashes remained of the home,
Name on stone – of her son.
He flew off to visit and stayed.
Both pilots are waving
To me, to her.
Slowing, the train,
Entering midday,
Roars.
Local route, the unknown old woman across
With her berries,
Enveloped in light.
Should I have called out to ask
Her forgiveness
For all that was?
She dozes,
She won’t hear a thing.