Oleg Woolf
In Memoriam: Oleg Woolf (1954-2011)
Translated by Boris Dralyuk
* * * My sympathy to you, o sojourner, and my compassion. A Soviet classic once compared a rifle shot to balding husbands at a festive table. There are no husbands, years, feasts, classics, rifles, now. Only an oaken table of oafs, a deaf and godforsaken Baal set for some nineteen hundred seventeen. Here, every year, a birthday's held by other husbands, wives of other workdays. Baals of old demand their sacrifices, no less than the new hounds of law demand their bloody entrails. Here a hostess, to justify the furniture, lights an electric lamp, as she'd have lit a kerosene lamp years before. You see: as usual. A knife lies on the dexter side, and the same talk of heat, of grief, the happiness of a new state, and of its greatness at a troubled hour, to bear for us the secret burden of hard choices. Well, let us raise a toast to home and table, raise this glass then - sighing, having set it down onto the heavily starched tablecloth - we'll toast to time's faceted vision and to a higher, patient sense, unclear to any mortal hold-back, till he walks outside, as through a door, into a creaky, shabby sorrow, and, blinded by a sudden garden, stands still upon the porch, astonished by what's revealed. It's time. Your coat lies trampled near the hanger. So long! Walk through the city, as before. The clouds are laid aside. Shining above are flanks of a new moon - an almost-Muscovite, like migrants from Moldova.
Translated by Boris Dralyuk and Irina Mashinski
* * * It is scary for nameless light to blaze all the way through. Do come to love loving me -- I will come to love you. Our world, worn-out by time, will soon be wholly transformed; So take me on faith alone -- just like that, for I am.
On Wednesdays
Translated by Irina Mashinski and the author
On Wednesdays they just live here and paint coarse walls. The town is all Romanian and painted. The front bumper tailgates the horse. Seven comes closer to half past seven, becomes eighted. On Thursday, right after that it rains. March has a return address with all these local watermarks, another bad snail mail ended with God bless and started with Dear Former Addressee. And the farmer throws his bucket into the well of village wine, waiving his farewell.