Friday, December 24, 2010
For the holiday season, I was asked to write something "Christmasy" for the party of Little Landers Historical Society at Bolton Hall in Tujunga. I thought that a recent poem for a married couple celebrating their 35th wedding anniversary would fit it quite well, if there was a carol in the text. I chose to quote a carol that remains one of the most beloved Polish carols, cited by Fryderyk Chopin in his Scherzo in B-minor, op. 20.
May your path be smooth,
and your sunlight mellow
~ an old blessing
“You are the apple of my eye”
“Let us have tea for two”
Steam rises from bronze liquid
freshly-baked szarlotka waits its turn
scent of cinnamon sweetens the air
the music box plays an ancient carol
Lulajze, Jezuniu, moja perelko,
Lulaj ulubione me piescidelko
She does not have to finish –
one glance and he knows
after thirty-five years together
faithful like cranes on a Chinese etching
Their looking glass is hidden away
in a box of treasures they don’t need
to find blessings
among daily crumbs of affection
The carol's text incipit means: “Hush, hush, Baby Jesus, my little pearl, my lovely little darling…” – This ancient Polish carol is a simple lullaby, filled with tender love for the infant, held in the arms of his gentle mother. There are many lullabies among Polish carols; the focus of Polish Christmas is on the baby and his mother, on the familial love that binds them. The LulajÅ¼e Jezuniu carol is sung throughout the Christmas holiday season, from Christmas Eve to February 2nd, the Candlemas.
Last year, I was traveling close to Christmas, and the empty airports were full of fake cheer, recorded Christmas carols blaring from the loudspeakers and tinsel with childish decorations everywhere. The poem I wrote about that is similar in tone to the "Married Christmas" - extolling the virtue of the subtle affection, gentle understanding of a shared life, the true family virtue...
Rules for Happy Holy Days
Don’t play Christmas carols
at the airport. Amidst the roar
of jet engines, they will spread
a blanket of loneliness
over the weary, huddled masses,
trying not to cry out for home.
Don’t put Christmas light on a poplar.
With branches swathed in white
galaxies, under yellow leaves, the tree
will become foreign, like the skeleton
of an electric fish, deep in the ocean.
Clean the windows from the ashes
of last year’s fires. Glue the wings
of a torn paper angel. Brighten
your home with the fresh scent
of pine needles and rosemary.
Take a break from chopping almonds
to brush the cheek of your beloved
with the back of your hand,
just once, gently. Smile and say:
“You look so nice, dear,
you look so nice.”
This is the poetry of a moment in the kitchen, home cooking meals of the season and sharing a togetherness and affection that is quite beyond words, yet forms the very fabric of life.
Best wishes to all my poets friends!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
When Ariyana Gibbon invited us, the Village Poets, to a special poetry reading at the Healing from the Ashes exhibition she organized in Sunland to benefit the victims of Station Fire on October 17, 2010, I did not have much to show for it. I had written one haiku about wildfires in general and one poem about my experience of watching the danger approach, anxiously waiting for the wildfire to leave the slopes of my mountains, where it just sat for days on end:
The flames are closer and closer,
the air thick with smoke, dense
with the noise of helicopter engines.
I have never faced such danger.
Pacing around the house, I start
collecting papers, packing suitcases
of photo albums that nobody looks at,
so old, they show us two lifetimes earlier
in an antique glow of happiness.
Neighbors sit on their front porches
with binoculars, watching the spectacle
unfolding, a reality show without a screen.
They laugh and drink, eat barbecued
hamburgers and sausages saturated with
the smoky flavor of California fire season.
I can’t stand the wait. I examine the contents
of my house, gather things I cannot lose,
say farewell to those that may burn.
I give up my claim over shelves of books,
roses in gilded frames, fine china, music boxes –
my treasures become worthless bulk.
The flames shoot higher, the fire refuses
to budge under the aerial assault, stubbornly
dwells on the slopes illuminated in red at one a.m.
Next morning, my car sinks low in the driveway
under the weight of papers I packed to save.
Someone else will burn them after I’m gone.
A neighbor’s little daughter walks by,
looks at the heavy suitcases and asks,
“Mommy, is Barbie going on vacation?”
There was also a small haiku and a tanka based on mosaics from the fire that I found on the project's website:
sinks into the ashes -
red flames lick the sky
smoke thickens into darkness
a butterfly soars
ascending into turquoise
my future brightens
Not much to it, nothing tragic. It is not a surprise, then, that the Poet Laureate of our community was not the featured poet at the “Healing from the Ashes.” That title went to Jane Fontana who lived much closer to the fires and eloquently described the experience of loss and recovery. She did not lose her own home, but her neighbors did: only two houses survived on her street. Her poems were compassionate and inspired.
After walking into the exhibit on Foothill Blvd. and touring the wonderful exhibition, I was inspired, too. I was struck by the beauty and expressiveness of artwork made lovingly from remnants found in the fire – mosaics from shards of china, reliefs including burnt clocks and lamps, curio cabinets of little figurines, paintings… Our neighbors experienced real loss, and it was transformed, in that impromptu gallery, into poignant art.
On one wall was a large metal clock, burnt, with markers for the hours, but no hands. “Time stopped for this clock,” I thought as I read the title – Sun Dial by Ruth Dutoit. It spoke to me and in 10 minutes I wrote a new poem. I like the idea of a clock with no hands to show time. A French experimental filmmaker Agnes Varda made a documentary about The Gleaners, talking to those who gather and recycle things, and showcasing her own collection of her own recycled, handless, timeless clocks.
There’s a point to this. I have one clock like that at home, dark rectangular frame with mother-of-pearl inlay in the style found in India or the Middle East, it sits on my shelf to remind me of timelessness, eternity, so I would not rush around too fast, try to do too many things at once. “There’s time, there’s still time” – it tells me… Ruth Dutoit called hers The Sun Dial and there’s a small marker, or dial, on her disc, where time is measured by metal wings:
The sundial glows
in a sunset of memory.
freeze in a nanosecond
of fiery beauty
We measure loss
in dragonfly wings,
in crystal shadows,
filled to the brim
before our time stops,
it too stops.
Another image that started "speaking" to me was a mosaic of a fames-spewing dragon by Robin M. Cohen. Unfortunately for the auction, it fell off its mounting on the wall and was damaged at the time of the exhibition. Cohen's mosaic was quite ornamental, almost too pretty for its materials of such tragic provenance. It resulted in a decoratively expressive, yet uncomplicated poem:
burn, burn, burn,
the horizon disappears
in scarlet light
burn, burn, burn
the air shimmers,
the dragon’s here
watch the dragon
the creature of change
the beast of renewal
transforms our lives
by pain, by loss, in fear
the dragon sings out
burn, burn, burn
flames lick the rooftops
with fierce kindness
to destroy and renew
burn, burn, burn
Finally, I came across a larger artwork by the exhibition's organizer, Ariyana Gibbon. She made several mosaics on canvas for this project and one of her pieces reminded me of something I knew, both pleasurable and painful. I went home before I was able to write the following poem, stringing a necklace of tearful memories from 1975 and 1999...
FROM THE ASHES
~ to Ariyana Gibbon
The mosaic tears glow
and flow In indigo sky
crystallizing in memory
into soft petals of ash
blanketing my driveway
after the mountains
were bright with fire
for weeks, hot-spots shining
in charcoal darkness
like an ocean-liner’s lights
on the Bosphorus,
on the way to the Black Sea.
The mosaic patterns
measure space in echoes
of arabesques on the ceiling –
the Blue Mosque
in Istanbul made me
dizzy with delight.
Wait, I saw such tears elsewhere –
Oh, it was that lapis-lazuli
silver necklace I admired
in a Grand Canyon shop
He bought too late
to save what was beyond repair.
The mosaic teardrops fall,
ashen, each one shattered already,
made of old pain that does not go away,
or cry itself out. It just sits there,
a boulder on the highway
damaged by rockslide,
a burnt-out shell of a house,
lost to flames.
Shards of broken china
glow against dark velvet –
a treasure found in ashes,
held together by a thin ribbon
of gold paint, a promise of sunrise,
at the edge of indigo sky.
More photos from the poetry reading at the exhibition may be found on Picasa Web Albums: http://picasaweb.google.com/Maja.Trochimczyk/SunlandHealingFromTheAshes#.
All photos and poetry reproduced here are copyrighted:(c) 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk
Sunday, October 31, 2010
In one old children's poem, shape-shifting clouds take the forms of endlessly changing desserts, stacks of cakes, ice-cream, whipped cream... Unlike the hungry, boy dreaming of sweets, Dyzio Marzyciel (The Dreamer), I don't see food above my head, only magic. The transformation of our world from the profane, ugly and boring to the sacred, saturated with quiet charm may happen anytime, anywhere.
In an instant, I see footsteps of the Greek goddess, Demeter, in another, I am moved to inhabit a painting... It takes just a bit of effort, after eyes are washed of the unwanted images of distress, chaos, pain. I still remember that stain of blood on the sidewalk in Venice, left after a suicide. I still see faces distorted by hate. I want to erase these memories with raindrops on rose leaves.
Some of my roses have impenetrable surfaces, keeping the raindrops round, jewel-like. Other ones absorb moisture in an instant, the drops spread out into amorphous blobs and disappear.
My life, my words, may be one or the other, visible or invisible, remembered or forgotten. I do not know what will happen when I'm gone. Now, this is my time to write, to record the beauty I discover. I am a witness to what I want to see. I could write about the rotten cans and layers of graffiti marring the landscape of the riverbed, and that rusty jeep that was sitting on the shore for years, gradually losing parts to the homeless, selling it off, bit by bit for scrap metal. OK, maybe I'll write about that jeep and the homeless. I already started, but that poem is still unfinished. Too dark, maybe? Too hopeless?
Today, it is time for something sweet. Isn't Halloween the day for treats?
A Poem of Found Images by Maja Trochimczyk
I live inside a painting
by Rene Magritte.
My river is made of silver,
my sunsets of tiger stripes.
I make my own rainbows.
My roses sing in the morning
to a sweet tune of water droplets
playing on the edges of leaves.
Spherical, crystal-clear globulets
of white light adorn each green surface,
like a handful of diamonds scattered
by Demeter, the goddess of plenty.
Water shines in full sunlight -
a child's memory, innocent and pure -
glistening before the breeze stirs,
droplets fall and petals begin their journey
crumbling into dust.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Fast forward to September 2010. The Alliance decides to help local cultural groups and, with other local partners - artists and community activists organizes a Community Art Sale and Silent Auction to benefit three cultural institutions: McGroarty Arts Center, Bolton Hall Museum, Little Landers Historical Society. Over 60 pieces of art are available for sale including about 20 pieces from local artists and an entire collection of maps, drawings, prints, and photographs depicting such varied topics as sailboats, English manor scenes, bird's-eye maps of famous cities, caricatures, and construction scenes.
I was invited to write about the artwork on sale, but was featured at another reading on the same day, at the Flintridge Bookstore in La Canada. I could only be there for 30 minutes at the end. It was not a huge obstacle to the organizers, more a problem for me, since my favorite painting was sold by then (a landscape scene with yucca flowers in a art-deco gold frame), but I still felt I had to contribute a plem, buy an artwork and have my share in community life.
A visit to the event's website left me with short poem, about the rooster. I found the Asian-style image inspiring, for I'm a Rooster myself (in the Chinese Zodiac), as vain about my appearance as the painted bird:
© 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk
Crowned with red
I admire black feathers
of my silky tail
I wake up at night
to proudly crow about
my strong beak and talons
The rest of the images on the site somehow did not make sense, I could not figure out what it was all about until I saw an album of photographs of the entire collection, donated to be sold anonymously and benefit Sunland-Tujunga's cultural organizations. Painter and activist Debby Beck brought the album to local Starbucks where I had a revelation! Pages and pages of hunt scenes, pages and pages of boats, pages and pages of workers soldering steel beams, pages and pages of maps... I was hooked and found my way into the imagery, capturing my impressions in free verse:
Dreaming of Elsewhere
© 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk
Red jackets shine against dark green foliage
of English copse and hedge.
Over the hill and dale ride the hunters.
Tally ho… Tally ho… hounds bark,
their voices echo through the fields
on a frosty morning.
Steam boats wait to take explorers
to the South Seas, Tahiti, Argentina.
White sails barely flutter in the breeze,
stiff and proud on the tall ships
of her Majesty, the Queen.
The West Australian,
The East Indian, Sultana,
The Kestrel – all are ready
for adventure, to circle the world,
conquer foreign lands,
bring back the gold of El Dorado.
Dreamers dreaming dreams –
We are at the edge of the ocean,
blue and deep, it stretches
to Japan we seldom think about
here, in the Far West
of Pacific Rim, Terra Incognita.
The lay of the land is clear
on antique maps, straight
from paintings by Vermeer –
only the milkmaid’s missing,
and the pearl. Canals, islands,
and church towers of Venice,
evenly measured empty blocks
of Atlanta, chaos of streets
crowded like children
at a Los Angeles fiesta,
and the mysterious labyrinth
of Boston, carved from sea,
sliced away from water.
Why Boston? Why so much Boston?
Is there a secret to this Eastern city
that explains Californian sun?
We do not hunt foxes in jackets
redder than their fur. We do not
wait for the sailboats and steamships
to take us where we do not belong.
We measure the lay of our land
in cypress, sycamore and live oak,
with the scent of sage shimmering
in summer heat above dried chaparral,
with star jasmine and orange blossoms
sweetening our winter gardens.
We are not going anywhere –
not to New York to construct
the tallest buildings of heavy steel,
not to an English manor
where silver is polished weekly,
and the butler serves tea
and scones at five o’clock.
Dreamers dreaming dreams –
We are here, longing for
elsewhere. Shall we ever
catch foxes eating fruit
in our vineyards? Shall we
find ourselves in lands distant,
The sailboats and steamships sailed away to distant shores; the maps and small pieces found their way to people's dreams. The center, museum and society counted and shared the donations. I was left in Venice, a six-foot-long, mahogany-framed detailed map of Venice - the magic city I dream of visiting again.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
But to live in California means to live in the mountains. Los Angeles has a bad rap internationally, as the city of crime, car chases, barbed wire, and graffiti. Nobody tells us before we come here of the amazing gardens, hills and mountains: San Gabriels, Santa Monica, Verdugo Hills... They criss-cross the terrain, so that everywhere we go we'd see something beautiful and breathtaking.
I live in the foothills, watch the mountains from my kitchen window, go for long walks in the dry river-bed of Tujunga Wash admiring the ever-changing colors and shapes of the mountains. Being aware that there are no cities for a while and they stretch for miles into the desert is a part of the allure of our little hermitage.
Interlude – Of the Mountains
I love you, my mountains,
oranged into sunset
Your cheeks aglow –
what sin you’re hiding,
in waterless creases,
Or is it first love
that makes you shine
with such glory?
The sunlight in California is so different from northern areas of Canada, or Poland. There it is pale, often grayish, frail. Here it brings a rainbow of colors to everything it touches. Everything is more vivid, more intense, under the bright rays, in summer or winter...
Bare mountains –
no – old grassy hills
worn out by wind
and torrential rains
shine in stark morning light
like exquisite folds
of red-brown velvet
covered with stardust.
Snow whitens the slopes
sculpted by crevices.
The earth sighs
in her sleep.
When my mother came to visit in 1999, she thought that these mountains, without a protective layer of trees, all exposed to the elements, looked like heaps of dought and still bore imprints of the giants' hands. I liked that image so much, I put it into a poem.
I’ll never tire of these mountains
made from the earth’s dough
by the hands of a giant
who kneaded a cake
that was never finished,
the dough left in piles
on the table of smooth fields
surprised by their sudden end
in rich folds and falls
decorated with the icing of snow
on cloudy winter mornings.
The sunsets are astounding and the skies glow. It is the clearest and the most spectacular in the winter, after the rain washes away the smog. But the fire-season knows its glories, too, the darker, wine-read hues. The next part of my Interlude, from Miriam's Iris (Moonrise Press, 2008), was actually inspired by a memory of looking at a different set of mountains, rocks falling apart in the Monument Valley.
IV. (A Monument of Time)
Submerged in the sand of time,
a continent from beyond
sinks in the last sunset.
Shadows move briskly.
Soon, a gentle coat of oblivion
will cover the ridges.
The desert sleeps
The rocks are on fire
into the evening sky.
Sand rises slowly.
The mountains drown
The pastels can be seen in January, our spring. With clouds, like scarves on the hilltops, with fresh greenery of new grass on the slopes, the mountains are ready for a party. I put that last poem on a postcard I printed, with the photo above, for my participation in the 2010 Fourth of July Parade of Sunland-Tujunga. I gave them out to everyone at the parade and still do giveaways from time to time. A cute little trifle, just to make your day a fresher/newer day....
Interlude - Of Bliss
with newness of this day –
fresh, new grass and
fresh, new leaves and
fresh, new clouds
in fresh, new sky
Washed clean by rainfall,
colored by ever-brighter light
of green and blue,
hope and innocence,
the hues of my love.
Even the mountains wear
their fresh, new dresses
with pleats of ridges and gullies
waiting to be ironed out
by the breath of wind and time.
But the mountains are temperamental, they shake, they burn, they fall apart. Living in their shadow is like living with an elephant in the room, or a giant rhinoceros in the backyard. The danger and beauty are celebrated in my occasional poem for An Award Ceremony for community volunteers who helped with January floods, organized by City Councilman Paul Krekorian. Called three days before the ceremony, I came up with the following poem. I now adapted it to the fire season, for the nature of the danger may change, but the threat remains.
They are a bit vain, aren’t they
these mountains of ours, still young.
They like being washed by the rain,
making themselves pretty for sunset.
Wet soil turns into a mudbath
for these giant beauties.
When they stretch and practice
their dance moves, our houses crumble.
Water jumps out of toilet bowls.
Aunt Rosie’s favorite crystal vase
shatters on the floor. The mountains
shake boulders out of their skirts,
lose weight. Rocks slide into our backyards.
We stand watch. We are ready.
Neighbor calls neighbor: “Are you OK?”
A friend you did not know you had
stops by. The danger looms.
In ancient Rome, guards had to hold
one hand up, with the finger on their lips
in a sign of silence, attention. I read
about it in a book, standing on my shelf,
in a crowded row of treasures
I hauled across the ocean, from the
old country to an unknown world.
I’d hate losing them to mud.
When the mountains dress in red
robes of fire, to dance in the night
rites of destruction, sometimes
it is too late for treasures. An old man
lost a hundred years of memories,
when his family heirlooms –
pictures, tchotchkes – burned to ashes.
His life spared, he still cries for what
he cannot not bring back.
We are lucky. Storms came and went.
The neighbors lived, the houses survived.
We were ready: moved out, moved in,
moved out, moved in, awakened
at midnight, sheltered by the goodwill
of unknown friends. We watched.
The storms passed. This was a good year.
We will watch. The aging beauties
will dance again.
Maja Trochimczyk and Paul Krekorian at the Awards Ceremony, June 2010.
All content, poetry and photos (C) by Maja Trochimczyk, 2010.
Mountain poems were all published in Maja Trochimczyk, Miriam's Iris, or Angels in the Garden, Los Angeles: Moonrise Press, 2008.
Mountain Watch was published in The Voice of the Village, July 2010.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Here in Sunland-Tujunga, a small town in the foothills, we have a museum, art center, historical society, and so much more. Three groups of poets invite members: Chupa Rosa Writers, McGroarty Chapter of the California Association of Chaparral Poets, and Village Poets. There has been a monthly poetry reading series first called The Eccentric Moon, then Camelback Poetry Readings, and now Village Poets Readings. We’ve had festivals and publications, and, since 1999, the institution of the Poet Laureate has highlighted the profile of poetry. What does such a Poet Laureate do? Wonder around in a toga and a laurel wreath?
Maybe once… first and foremost a Poet Laureate is expected to read poetry, write poetry, promote poetry, teach poetry, publish poetry, and breathe poetry… Until 2006, I have never read my poetry in public, nor gone to public readings. I always had poems at home on my shelf, in my native language, Polish, in bi-lingual editions, Italian, French, and in English. I started writing after emigrating to Canada, when I felt completely out of place in my new country and decided to make a home for myself in a new language. I did two contradictory things at the same time: I changed my name back to my impossibly sounding/looking Polish original, and I started writing poetry in English. Thus, I have established a hybrid identity that is from neither the Old World nor from the New one. This fate of not really belonging anywhere is the fate of a “displaced person” who left one country and cannot grow roots in another. Poetry became, for me, a way of “rooting myself” into the new culture, exploring a new world of imagination, and recording & communicating the most intimate thoughts and emotions.
Since I like going to concerts and exhibits, I often write about music or art. This spring, I published a book of poetry about the sublimely beautiful romantic piano music by Fryderyk Chopin, whose 200th birth anniversary is celebrated this year. Called Chopin with Cherries: A Tribute in Verse, the volume includes 123 poems by 92 poets, who live in different countries around the world, but all love Chopin’s music (www.moonorisepress.com/chopin.html).
The title comes from one of my poems, based on a childhood memory of eating cherries while sitting in a tree, and listening to a Chopin concert on the radio. Here it is:
A Study with Cherries
After Etude in C Major, Op. 10, No. 1 and the cherry orchard
of my grandparents, Stanisław and Marianna Wajszczuk
I want a cherry,
a rich, sweet cherry
to sprinkle its dark notes
on my skin, like rainy preludes
drizzling through the air.
Followed by the echoes
of the piano, I climb
a cherry tree to find rest
between fragile branches
and relish the red perfection –
morning cherry music.
I hide in the dusty attic.
I crack open the shell
of a walnut to peel
the bitter skin off,
revealing white flesh –
a study in C Major.
Tasted in reverie,
the harmonies seep
through light-filled cracks
between weathered beams
in Grandma’s daily ritual
of Chopin at noon.
To honor my other set of grandparents, at the border of Belarus, I wrote about my summer memories of harvest, that even little children had to participate in. Thanks to Polish national radio broadcasts, Chopin’s music was present everywhere and people were all the better for it. Their attachment to this music had a root in national history and in a characteristic trait of defiance, connected to a sense of honor and nobility. During WWII, the Nazis banned Chopin and playing his music in public or listening at home was punishable by being sent to a concentration camp. People grew more attached to it, as a result. On October 17, we remember Chopin’s death of TB at the age of 39. He is long gone, but his music remains to enrich our lives. He worked hard making sure every note was just right. This is how we write poetry, too: making sure that every word is just right.
After Mazurka in F-sharp Minor, Op. 59, No. 3, for my Grandma
Nina, Uncle Galakcyon, and Father, Aleksy Trochimczyk
The straw was too prickly,
the sunlight too bright,
my small hands too sweaty
to hold the wooden rake
my uncle carved for me.
I cried on the field of stubble;
stems fell under his scythe.
I was four and had to work –
Grandma said – no work no food.
How cruel! I longed for
the noon’s short shadows
when I’d quench my thirst
with cold water, taste
the freshly-baked rye bread
sweetened by the strands
of music wafting from
the kitchen window.
Distant scent of mazurkas
floated above the harvesters
dressed in white, long-sleeved shirts
to honor the bread in the making
The dance of homecoming
and sorrow – that’s what
above the fields of Bielewicze
where children had to earn their right
to rest in the daily dose of the piano –
too pretty, too prickly, too bright
Published in "Voice of the Village" October 2010 issue. The 19th-century vintage postcard from Maja Trochimczyk's Private Collection.
Yucca blooms in Big Tujunga Wash, San Gabriel Mountains, photo by Maja Trochimczyk. Portrait by Kathabela Wilson, Beyond Baroque, September 12, 2010.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
In 2009, I wrote a poem called "Illuminata" and inspired by a Buddhist crown from the permanent collection of Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena. The poem starts with a line: "I want that crown" (and can be heard and read on the website of the Museum). After having heard it several times and laughing at the intensity of an entirely non-Buddhist desire, my friends commented on my election as the Poet Laureate of Sunland Tujunga: "See? You got your crown."
On April 25, 2010, the Passing of the Laurels Ceremony was held at the McGroarty Art Center, Tujunga, with Joe DeCenzo doing the honors on behalf of the Sunland-Tujunga Poetry and Literature Committee. The event included presentations by Claire Knowles, Director of McGroarty Art Center, Dorothy Skiles, President of Village Poets, Mary Benson from Paul Krekorian's office, music performances and poetry readings by Joe DeCenzo, Elsa Frausto, and myself. I was thrilled to have received Certificates of Congratulations from State Senators Bob Huff and George Runner, and Los Angeles Councilman Paul Krekorian.Actually, I was so happy, I could not stop smiling! It was awesome! This is the best neighborhood in LA: with 20,000 people we have a museum, historical society, arts center, and more poetry, literature, art, and civic groups that you could count.
My reading at the "crowning" included a poem I wrote especially for this occasion, What I love in Sunland. You may download the poem in Word format here. It is also reproduced below. For more photographs from the event, see its Picasa Photo Album.
My motto for her two years as Poet Laureate is
"Poetry ... in pursuit of happiness"
So far, I have written three sets of occasional poems, commissioned by various local civic groups and individuals: Councilman Paul Krekorian, Sunland-Tujunga Alliance for their Art Sale, Little Landers Historical Society for the retirement party of outgoing President of this group, Lloyd Hitt. I have also started a regular column in our local paper, Voice of the Village, also contributing verse to its poetry corner. In this blog I'll post some of this occasional work that is created for the enjoyment of my friends and neighbors, to celebrate, laugh, and, sometimes, grieve with them.
You may see the list of events below and selected photographs in my Poet Laureate Picasa Photo Album. There are samples of poetry from my three books online in various places (Rose Always, Miriam's Iris, and Chopin with Cherries selected for the Cosmopolitan Review). I have also published online some chapbooks that are there because I like them (Glorias & Assorted Praises, Poems for My Friend, and Poems and Stories). Other poems were published on various sites, including a photo-album My Hat Collection, "Look at me..." in Loch Raven Review, (2010) and A Monument of Time and Memento Vitae in Clockwise Cat (2009).
If you want to know more of my poetry, you may consult the list of published poems, events and readings, and photos from recent events, as well as Picasa albums from Chopin with Cherries I, Chopin with Cherries II, the Spiritual Quartet readings and other events that will be added on. Here's my poem for the Passing of the Laurels Ceremony:
WHAT I LOVE IN SUNLAND
(C) 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk
The strong arms of the mountains
embracing, protecting our town
The lights scattered in the night valley
during my drive to the safety of home
How clouds sit on the hilltops
squishing them with their fat bottoms
The river playing hide-and-go-seek under the bridge
to nowhere: “now you see me – now you don’t”
The towering white glory of yucca flowers in June –
we are Lilliputians in the giants’ country
The mockingbird’s melodies floating above
red-roofed houses asleep on little sunny streets
Armenian fruit tarts sweeter than fresh grapefruit
and pomegranate from my trees
Hot, shimmering air, scented with sage and star jasmine,
carved by the hummingbird’s wings
The rainbow of roses, always blooming
in my secret garden
To request an occasional poem or poetry reading at an event, you may contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
|November 13, 2010||"Chopin with Cherries IV" Reading at Loyola University, Chicago, IL, with a pianist and 8 other poets|
|September 25, 2010, 1 p.m.||"Chopin Lecture, Recital, and Poetry Reading" at Polish Fest LA, Polish Church, Los Angeles, with Mira Mataric and Lois P. Jones|
|September 23, 2010, 7 p.m.||Featured poet at Cypress College, with Susan Rogers,Dani Antman and Taoli Ambika Talwar, Cypress College|
|September 22, 2010, 2 p.m.||"Voices of Recovery" - Poetry celebrating National Recovery Month, with Jon Epstein and Susan Rogers, Phoenix House, Venice|
|September 19, 2010, 3 p.m.||"Poetry in the Foothills" - Featured Poet with James Pinkerton and Ross Peterson at the Flintridge Bookstore, La Canada-Flintridge|
|September 18, 2010, 5 p.m.||Poets on Site group reading for Exhibition from the Annual Henry Fukuhara Plein Air Workshop at APC Gallery, Torrance|
|September 16, 2010, 2 p.m.||"Voices of Recovery" - Poetry celebrating National Recovery Month, with Susan Rogers at Phoenix House Orange County, Santa Ana|
|September 12, 2010, 3 p.m.||"Chopin with Cherries III" Group Reading at Beyond Baroque, Venice, with 15 other poets and Rick Wilson playing historical flutes|
|August 28, 2010, 6 p.m.||Poets on Site at Arlington Gardens, Pasadena, group reading; see the event's Facebook Photo Album.|
|August 15, 2010, 2 p.m.||Summer Poetry Reading at Watermelon Festival, Sunland Park, Sunland|
|August 8, 2010, 4 p.m.||Reading "Six Poems for Lloyd" at his Retirement Ceremony, Bolton Hall, Tujunga.|
|July 31, 2010, 2 p.m.||Reading "Illuminata" at Celebration of Poets on Site's Audio Tour of Pacific Asia Museum, Pasadena. See photos from this event at Picasa Web Albums.|
|July-August, 2010, ongoing||Teaching a Creative Writing Class for Children, McGroarty Arts Center, Tujunga.|
|July 4, 2010, 10 a.m.||Participation in the Fourth of July Parade, with Susan Rogers, Elizabeth Kanski, and Anna Harley-Trochimczyk. Picasa Photo Album|
|From June, 2010, ongoing||Publication of "Chopin with Cherries" blogs on poetry and music, at Open Salon, and Blogspot.|
|From May, 2010, ongoing||Publication of poems in journals and anthologies: The Cosmopolitan Review, San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, My Poem Rocks, etc. See the list of poems.|
|From May, 2010, ongoing||Publication of poems in the local newspaper, The Voice of the Village: "Mamma and me" in vol. 1 no. 7 (May), p. 4 , "Mountain Watch" and "Interlude - Of Bliss" in vol. 1 no. 8 (June), p. 25, "Rose Window" in August.|
|June 5, 2010, 4-9 p.m.||"Maja and Friends" Poetry for Puppetry booth and stage presentations by Maja, Sharon Rizk, Marlene Hitt, Beverly Collins, Justin Kibbe, Don Kingfisher Campbell, and CaLokie. Picasa Photo Album|