Olga Trubetskoy

CONTACT:

Email: trubetsk@charter.net

BIO:
Olga Trubetskoy is a scientist, poet, and musician. Born in the depth of Russian woods, she first moved with her husband and three sons from Moscow to the outskirts of the Dollywood, then followed the trails of the Walden Pond in Boston and finally landed at the shores of Lake Mendota.  She now lives with her husband in Middleton, WI, enjoying singing, playing balalaika and piano, early morning and late-night walks around kettle ponds, kayaking and camping in the woods,  and any time conversations with friends and family around the fire.

Illustrated books of Olga’s poetry (penname Oltia) with co-authors of Ivan Andreev, Elizabeth Bueno, Hazel Carter and Marcus Bullock are available on Amazon.

PUBLICATIONS:
Galactic Tales: Tales From the Russian Galaxy

Poetry

Autumn Dimensions

 From a top of a river bluff
Looking down or up –
Into silvery skies. There
Three boats are floating – yellow, orange and red.
But their color is hidden.
In cool, fresh, endless breeze of the day
They appear as no color, or size or dimension exists
Moving slowly, gently,
No paddles, no waves, no traces
Upstream, downstream – no matter.
Skies and river are merged into one
As they glide on a silvery surface of time

The River of Asphalt

To a pair of cranes, I met in March
on a road across from the Tiedeman Pond

Gracious necks, red berets on the tilting heads
– a pair of cranes by a side of a busy road,
they stand on the edge waiting patiently.
- Why are they here?
- Do they want to traverse a river of asphalt?
- Are they confused with our strange covid times?
They shake silently, ruffle their feathers, and started to cross.
I put brakes on a car
Watching cranes walking slowly in front of my windshield,
they are watching me too, with their eyes round and dark.
One goes first and then stops and waits in the middle,
The other is still uncertain
touching surface with her long, three-pointed foot
and then started to follow.
She wobbles slowly, painfully, gently –
a grey egg on a grey asphalt, in hopes for water,
Three-toe feet slide on a harsh, flat surface
with a sound of slap, slap –
 Crane’s footsteps on the asphalt river.
                - What’s the matter with you, my feathered friend – you are a winged creature!
                        - Were your powerful wings clipped or broken?
                                     - Are you a captive of times, like us, unable to fly?
                                        - Or did you forget how to fly
As my soul forgets times when she was flying…