On Halloween, All Souls, and All Saints...

Did you decorate your house for Halloween yet? I took out my laughing bats, magic hats, and pumpkins. Yet another year of trying to tame the monster, make the grime and horror go away. I wish to replace the vulgar tastelessness of eyeball soups and skeletons on the lawn with some carnival-style whimsy... I'll be disappointed again, surrounded by plastic atrocities emerging from the closet yet again, as we circle on this merry-go-round of time that accelerates every year. When I started my "Chopin with Cherries" blog in 2010, I wrote about the composer's death, cemeteries and Halloween... Let me start this rant against Halloween, then, with a self-quotation:

  "October in America is filled with the excitement of Halloween. Now, that’s a strange celebration! People dress up as zombies. They scatter eyeballs, skeletons, and torn, bloody limbs around their houses. They convert their gardens into makeshift graveyards… All to scare death away. The spiritual roots of Halloween are in Druidic rituals of the Winter Solstice, a holiday of darkness, marking the shortest day and longest night of the year. What if the night won and the sun never came back? Monsters, ghouls, and horrible, terrifying, dangerous creatures of the dark are supposed to be roaming the world that night, saying “trick or treat” – “bribe me, or I’ll kill you.” 

In a highly commercialized current version of this celebration, a wild party-season culminating on October 31, we conquer our fear of death by dressing up like the dead and dressing our children like cute little ghouls and monsters, to cheat and trick death, pretending we are already dead. There is more to it, of course, beyond the candy giveaway and all-night, carnival parties. To me, this is a day dedicated to fear and rejection of death. We want to live forever. We mock and deny the power of death, by ridiculing it in the most atrocious way possible. People love Halloween. I’m deeply conflicted about it. As a mother, though, I made my share of costumes… 

I remember going to a cemetery on October 31, during my first year in Canada, two months after coming from Poland. It was a culture shock. There was nobody there, the place was abandoned. In the city, stores and yards were full of make-believe tomb-stones, with sculls scattered around and zombies’ hands sticking out of the ground, but nobody went to bring candles and flowers to real graves. In Poland, at this time of the year, we used to visit the grave-sites of our grandparents, great grandparents, or soldiers, or victims of the war. We used to bring candles to these grave-sites and monuments. In the rain, in quickly falling darkness of a late autumn evening, cemeteries and war memorial sites were shrouded by the warm glow of thousands of candles. People wanted to remember their dead, their fore-bearers. They wanted to reflect on the past, think about their own mortality. The All Souls’ Day, October 31, is a melancholy, yet comforting remembrance of our ancestors and a time for reflection on our own place in the dance of generations.

 In Warsaw, where we had no family graves to visit, we went to the monuments of the fallen: the Unknown Soldier, the heroes of the Warsaw Uprising of 1944. (A handful of underground Home Army soldiers held out for 63 days before being defeated by the Germans, while the Allies waited for the city to bleed to death). We walked through the alleys of Powazki, the oldest cemetery in town, visited the graves of famous Poles. We brought lots of candles; children ran around and made sure all the candles were burning. They had fun: played with fire, skipped over puddles, collected dry, colorful leaves. Adults walked with their umbrellas, and said “shh, shhh… be quiet, this is a cemetery, a place of peace and eternal rest.” 


But it is not the disgusting artificial severed limbs, eyeless sockets of plastic skulls that may truly terrify you. The scary stuff happens behind closed doors, in homes that look so idyllic from afar, with their bright porch light and tidy gardens:

The Hour of Darkness

"Get out of my house!!!"

said the man.

"Look at the knife

in my hand!"

the boy answered.

The woman cried

with her heart split open.

The little girl whispered:

"I wish I were a fairy

and could make myself deaf

to not hear you..."

And it was night. 

__________________

Note: The last line is quoted from The Bible, NIV, the Gospel According to St. John: John 13:30.

(c) 1997 by Maja Trochimczyk 

Sometimes the pain that outlasts all others is internal, invisible, untouched: 

Love Horror

I saw you at the opera:

So royal in your splendidness,

you dispensed favors

left and right,

bestowing graces.

What did you see

in me, a Shulamite

dancing darkly

among throngs

of chaste-less virgins?

Love is a horror of distance -

silent scream

for one kind hour 

(c) 2000 by Maja Trochimczyk

And then, of course, out of a broken heart, a broken present, and no future:

Last Wish

Kiss me with the kiss of death

so my lips stop breathing

kiss me with the kiss of Lete

so its waters wash away

my memory

kiss me, please,

so I could go in peace

to the empty fields of Elysium

for a well deserved stroll in the park

of the late graceful

(c) 2003 by Maja Trochimczyk

Sometimes, things happen that you do not want to remember, do not want to forget. April 4, 2000. The day my parents were shot. May 12, 2001, the day my Father died, after a year in and out of the hospital. His last words to me? About a week before his death: "Majusiu, your Dad has become a vampire! I live off other people's blood." And we laughed at this joke about a very serious matter. His spine cells, exhausted by months of malnutrition, stopped producing red blood cells. He lived because he had a blood transfusion every two weeks. Indeed, a vampire.

Then: July 4, 2013, the day my Mother died. I would not believe it was serious, that trip to the hospital (again!), in an ambulance (again!). I had time to get used to to these phone calls from Poland, month after month, year after year, ambulance, hospital, home, convalescence... I have not written any poems in Poland, any about Her death. I'm still in denial. But I wrote this, when they were shot, on the plane back to L.A., returning after 10 days sitting in the hospital, by their bedside in Warsaw:

The Polish Easter

The bullet pierces the lung,

blood spills in darkness:

shortness of breath,

mouth tied with tape

agony in the basement

cold cement floor

How does one live after that?

Does one live?

Without the stomach,

kidneys, intestines and spleen?

Plastic pipes carry out

all kinds of liquid.

The Polish Easter

is a celebration of

overeating. Food is life.

Would Dad ever eat again?

Would Mom ever breathe without gasping?

Honor your mother and father.

I do.

They did not.

(c) 2000 by Maja Trochimczyk

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Now, both of my parents are gone to the All Souls world.  Where is it? I do not know. What is it? I cannot imagine. It exists, I'm quite certain, as I often feel their presence with me. They both look over my shoulder as I write this, making sure I'm being a good girl. How? Certainly not like that overzealous Guardian Angel in a short story by Slawomir Mrozek; so eager to take care of his charge, a very active boy, he kept hitting and slapping and punishing the youngster for his every move. Unwittingly, the angel caused an adverse reaction. The boy, unable to run out and play with kids without being slapped by his Angel, instead got a chemistry kit, made a bomb, blew up his house, and ran away, followed by the Guardian Angel, limping...

Funeral portraits (taken from coffins), 17th century Polish nobles and noblewomen.
Wilanow Art Gallery, Poland.

All Saints, then. Saints in Heaven. The realm of pure, white satin robes, gold halos, harps hanging on willow branches. Endless boredom. According to Mark Twain, at least. I have not been there yet, only peeked inside a couple of times. Looked and forgot what I saw.  We are not saints. Not yet.

Green shone the wings

of the dove - the Psalm says

with erudite certainty

that I don’t share

touched - as I am -

by an angel

of forgetfulness

and inattention.

______________________________________

Photos (C) 2011-2013 by Maja Trochimczyk

Poetry (c) 1997-2013 by Maja Trochimczyk 

100 Thousand Poets for Change - What Change? Where? How?

                                     

The 100 Thousand Poets for Change event at the end of September has attracted poets from many political and spiritual orientations.  I have participated in two such events with my writing group, Westside Women Writers, so I decided to do something different this year and join the diverse community of poets, artists, spiritual teachers and comedians who gathered at the Church of Truth: Center for Awakening Consciousness. The event, organized by poet Marcielle Brandler was recorded for her show "Marcielle Presents..." to be broadcast on public access TV in Pasadena.

Marcielle invited me because she liked my ephemeral and sensual love poetry and wanted me to read that. I wondered what this type of poetry may have to do with protests, demonstrations, anti-war, anti-1% and pro-Occupy events that other 100 Thousand Poets for Change have evolved into.

I was pleasantly surprised that the change she is interested in is the same type of change I'm interested in - the only one we can actually control and "own" - personal, spiritual change. 

Since we met at the closing of my Exhibition "Shadows-Leaves-Roses" at Scenic Drive Gallery of Susan Dobay in Monrovia, I decided to honor our mutual friend with a poem inspired by her painting, Musicscape 12, an image of a large tree surrounded by small trees in a whirlwind of pastel colors.

See how we dance? 

~ inspired by Susan Dobay's "Musicscape  12"

Simon says – “grow”

and our roots reach for water

our branches for the sun

Simon says – “blossom”

and our pink petals open

in a gold mist of newness

 Simon says – “sing”

and we let the breeze whisper

with hummingbirds, jewels, leaves

 Simon says – “fly”

and we turn and turn again

in swirling clouds, voiceless music, dancing

__________________

Published in  an anthology "On Awakening" ed. K. Wilson, Poets on Site, 2012.

Previously reprinted on this blog in May 2013.

The poem is a play on a children's game - followers and teacher, learning to grow and spread your wings, by following an example of someone or something who/that is already there. Inspired. 

How appropriate that the poem was published in a book "On Awakening" edited by Kathabela Wilson and consisting of poetry to paintings by Susan Dobay!

The focus on personal enlightenment took me next to my didactic poem, a definition of virtues - four cardinal and three theological virtues, The Cornerstone. I have shared this poem here in the past, but why not read it again?

The Cornerstone

Justice: Do what's right, what's fair.

           Fortitude:  Keep smiling. Grin and bear.

                   Temperance: Don't take more than your share.

                            Prudence: Choose wisely. Think and care.

 Find yourself deep in your heart

                       In a circle of cardinal virtues

                                     The points of your compass

                                                                YOUR CORNERSTONE

Once you've mastered the steps, new ones appear:

      Faith:   You are not alone . . .
             Hope:  And all shall be well . . .
                              Love:   The very air we breathe

                                                                           WHERE WE ARE. . .

This poem uses color font so it can be read by a group, with each member reading lines of different color and the words in caps read by all. At the end there is a definition of love as the "very air we breathe where we are..." I really, really like this definition and am very proud of having come up with it. It is so true, and so amazing.  It is the universal love of everyone and everything, the love that starts at self and spread outwards to touch every single life, every single being we come in touch with.

But then, I came to the understanding of this love - a concept that eluded me for decades - through a very specific, romantic kind of love. This one, too, is timeless, or can be, when treated right. So I read the perennial favorite of my audiences that I read so often I grew tired and stopped entirely.

The Rose Window

  

I place you in the heart

of my rose, dark red one

with dew drops on its leaves.

Like a tricked-up baby

from Ann Geddes' postcard

you rest, snugly wrapped

in the comfort of my love.

"That too shall pass," they say,

"That too shall pass.

The rose will wither,

love will fade away."

Respectfully, I disagree.

I know the symmetry

of velvet petals

is but an opening

into a different universe,

a cosmic window,

timeless.

I see it in the shyness

of your smile. Yes.

You are that lucky.

In the morning

when the curtains of mist

open above silver hills

carved from time

like a Japanese woodcut,

you taste freedom.

You found your true self

under the detritus

of disordered life.

Isn't it strange

that you've been saved

by the perfection

of just one rose?

Published in Rose Always: A Court Love Story (Moonrise Press, Rev. ed. 2011)

From the window it was a very short trip inside, to Marcielle's favorite poem of mine, Eros 6. I read it at the "Shadows-Leaves- Roses" exhibition to a great delight of my audience. It is short and defines feminine view of love that is sweet, sensuous and spiritual. 

                         

Eros 2

if you have a stem

that needs a flower

      I am your rose

if you are a blade of grass

that longs for the happy weight

of the butterfly,

      I’ll give you wings

if you are a cherry

overflowing with rich, sweet juice,

      I’ll plant you as my tree

published in Miriam's Iris (Moonrise Press, 2008).

My poetry fit very well with the theme of the reading and the core ideas represented by the Church of Truth, founded in 1913, and still active. Their motto ("Live the Light, Give the Light! Bring heaven to earth every day!") may appear in many religions and this original, gentle, and inspired group professes borrowing from a number of traditions. 

If you are interested in the Church of Truth, visit their website: CenterforAwakeningConsciousness.com.  This is a definition of their tenets:

"New Thought, as defined by The International New Thought Alliance, is an ever evolving understanding that all of life happens through us, never to us. It uses the term or word consciousness to further explain the process, often quoting Emmet Fox's statement, 'Life is Consciousness,' that leads one to the ever unfolding idea that in order to effect a change in our life, the realm of mind called consciousness must first change."

I  do not know if I will come back for any of their meetings, since I have my calendar filled with artistic events, and my Sunday mornings with serving as an usher in a Catholic church. However, I was delighted to have selected a matching dress, scarf and book covers to go so well with the colors of their poster, depicting the flower of an opening lotus. That was very inspired!

I was also quite happy to meet many interesting poets and inspired writers. For me, a visit to the Church of Truth was a gift and an opening of a window to  a world I knew nothing about.  That's change enough for this year.