Sometimes we have to pass through the nadir of darkness to emerge into light, on the other side... We had our share of stressful events here in Southern California this year, the Year of Total Eclipse, especially recently, with the La Tuna Fire in September and the Creek Fire in December. Both fires devastated our open spaces, hillside habitat, and destroyed quite a few houses, too. Sadly, lots of animals died in both fires, and some animals moved: sighting of bobcats increased in our neighborhood since La Tuna Fire, probably because they lived in Verdugo Hills, covered with green bushes and trees even in the driest of summers, with lots of water and shade and food for the beautiful and dangerous cats...
through ash, through dead leaves
in search of a new home
a bobcat walks
But then, there is light that casts no shadow, and shines straight in us, through us. I wish all of us, poets, and poetry lovers, to revel in such unique, clear, uplifting light on the holy days and through the next year. Let it be the Year of Light, the Year of peace and beauty. I wish you all happiness and blessings. I wish...
a new world -
petals open and fade
my rose blossoms
Words have a lot of power and we know that what we say makes an imprint on reality, not only on the internal life, but also the reality around. How many people remember a harsh word, a label, a slur, from their childhood? How many words did we utter we'd rather not, in hindsight? How many people curse others only have that curse reflected by the mirror of the Universe and came down upon them in unexpected and unexplained calamity? Or, the opposite, how many times do we say something sweet and nice, and a couple of hours later hear these lovely worlds reflected back to us, from someone different?
With Susan Rogers, the giver of Light, November 11, 2017
The Spiritual Quartet in an Easter Garden (Susan Rogers, Lois P. Jones, Ambika Talwar)
Someone sent me the following "decree" of St. Germain - from a fascinating collection of life-changing, and inspirational texts that are more orders, telling the world what it should be like, than prayers, begging for help... I like them a lot, and this one, in particular is a good choice to start, given the Polish background - in Poland, complaining is a national sport!
“BELOVED MIGHTY I AM PRESENCE”! You stand guard over my tongue, and never let me speak words of criticism, condemnation, judgment, or blame of any person, place, condition, or thing! Reach down Your Hand and withdraw all substance of criticism, condemnation, judgment, blame, or other human qualities with which I have charged into my being and world! Consume it all in The Cosmic Violet Consuming Flame and Saint Germain’s Spiral Blue Flame; then Stand Guard and see that I do not requalify any more of Your Pure Energy flowing through my being and world. "ALMIGHTY I AM”! (3)
Let us, then, use our words wisely, to the benefit of our own en-Light-enment and for the illumination of the world around us. Let us be the candles in the windows, the stars that shine bright up high. Let us radiate pure joy, peace, and tranquility. Let us fill our hearts with the love that forgives all and understands all, and does not need to say anything, for it is, just is, always is and will be, as it never dies and never changes. And So Be It and So It Is...
Here are my Christmas and New Year Wishes for 2018:
Scarlet - for loving heart
Emerald - for peaceful mind
Diamond - for clear insight
Here are the rose jewels for
Happy Holidays and New Year!
I spent some time with my poetry books this year, updating two books, and working on things that are still unfinished. For those who would like to see what I have written, here are the links and covers:
When you travel you try to be in two places at the same time, where you live and where you are a guest. The timelines split and you enter the wonderful country of what if...
Ujazdowski Park in Warsaw, Maple Tree.
In my recent travels to Poland I spent some days in Warsaw, walking through its wonderful parks, admiring the ancient trees, and then a week in Krakow, where the Old Town is surrounded by Planty - a park built in place of city walls and its moat.
In Warsaw I visited the Orthodox cemetery where my parents are buried. They both loved picking leaves in the park on Sundays in autumn. And the trees around the tombstones are full of birds singing, talking to each other... And the breeze flutters in the treetops... And it is quiet, and tranquil, and all is well...A place of reflection and rest. No wonder Poles especially Polish widows spend so much time in cemeteries!
and here we are
with bouquets of bronze leaves
timeless in sunlight
I spent most of Sunday and Monday in October wandering around my beloved Warsaw - Pola Mokotowskie (Pilsudski Park) and Park Ujazdowski with the Paderewski Monument, and the Old Town, were the highlights of course....
striped with shadows
gold oak leaves get ready
for winter
I called those leaves "real oak leaves" and my son said, what do you mean, Mom, so California oaks are not real? Not in the same way, to me. Of course beautiful, especially when you see them, dark green and perfectly shaped, outlined against the gold grass... but the colors are reversed in Poland where the grass is always green (or covered with snow) and oaks reach for the glory of the Sun in their majestic golds and bronzes...
no, we will not go -
said the leaves on one oak tree
in November
my oak leaves
turn sunny gold and bronze
before first snowfall
a blur of gold leaves
waits for the chilling wind -
end of summer
so above as below
gold on the ground, gold in the sky -
last days of autumn
all made of gold -
I drink pure sunlight
at noon
red, bronze and gold
paint steps into bareness -
last days of freedom
I witness it all -
tragedies and joys pass by
under my branches
my path of treasures
no time to pick them all -
an autumn rainbow
do leaves exist for
branches or branches for leaves?
there's no answer
many winters
one war after another -
the one to last
maple bright, maple right
paints the blue sky
day and night
gold maple leaves -
uncounted on twisted branches,
explained by sunlight
Apparently at the end of the 19th century Krakow had such bad climate, it was Poland's capital for tuberculosis and other respiratory diseases, so the City Council made a bold decision, protested by many, including the famous painter Jan Matejko. But history had to give in to health, and the walls were taken out, moats were filled and trees planted, now ancient and surrounding the city with a beautiful green or gold ring. . .
Autumn Wings
A blue-winged pink angel landed on my desk with a flutter, left one soft white feather and disappeared with a smile suspended in mid-air like the Cheshire Cat. I’m Alice in Wonderland, as I wander and wonder, bewildered by the beauty of gold leaves under my feet, mystique of sunrays piercing the fog patiently filling spaces between church towers and ancient maple trees receding into silence. Swish – swish – the angel’s wings above me. Swish – swish – crumbling leaves mark every step as I walk through the golden park – its beauty unnoticed by passersby rushing to appointments, parties. Yet, this glory will sustain us. This is what is – I stop to breathe in the scent of autumn leaves and last pale roses faintly disappearing into the silence of sleep marked by the flutter of wings, blue wings of my brown-eyed angel. Shy, demure, he looks down at his feet, bare toes sticking out under the pink robe. Oh, what delightful noise they would make when he walked between the massive oaks, shrouded by the evening mist swish – swish – swish – now and forever swish –swish – swish –
September in Krakow, 2017
And now, that we are in angelic realms, let's read one more angelic poem:
Just One Secret Are you born of untold darkness? Are you a child of light? When was the last time you saw an angel in Hollywood? Awesome, majestic, dressed in light and ten feet tall? With rainbow wings perhaps, and a diamond crown? This gentle brightness is here to guide you hover above, guard your back - It casts no shadow so you see clearly each turn and pitfall on your path. This is no faith, no hope, just plain knowledge - look all around you, open your eyes - There is one beside the Superman another one above Snow White with too much makeup Batman goes hand in hand with his invisible winged twin An archangel watches over Darth Vader n a tattered cloak (in case the light saber is real) and a clown cannot shake off a flock of putti that giggle while pulling on his top hat. Cherubs, Seraphim with six wings, halos - pure, luminescent dazzling and brilliant they simply ARE!
There is yet another "angel" poem that I posted here in December 2015 after coming back from Paris, "An Invitation to the Dance" (see http://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2015/12/on-polish-christmas-in-paris-at-notre.html). It was officially published in the Altadena Poetry Review 2016, and then reprinted in the Poetry and Dance II anthology in 2017. It will also appear in the new version of Rose Always - A Love Story, where it belongs.
Do charcoal hills scorched by wildfire make you think of the end of the world? Of return and rebirth, dust to dust, light into light? The sun is surreal, reduced by smoke to one, red eye... I lived through two wild wildfires in my Sunland neighborhood, the Station Fire of 2009 that burned down most of Los Angeles National Forest and surrounded us in our little city on all sides, and the La Tuna Fire of 2017 that burned the Verdugo Hills and the peaks and canyons on both sides of the 210 freeway. Only four houses were destroyed this time ("only" - tell it to the four families that lost everything!) and no lives were taken. But still... the black bare slopes remain.
charcoal on the left
charcoal on the right -
210 after fire
It could have been much worse, if not for bravery and endless work of over 1,000 firemen from the entire Southern California region. When I went swimming on Monday, I ran into firemen from Santa Barbara, Santa Maria, Montecito, Lompoc...They came to the pool to have a shower. Maybe they were called late to tame down the ever growing monster, spreading in four directions at once, maybe they did not see much action, still they were there to protect us.
flames dance and scorch
firemen dance with water among them
our hearts dance to thank them
Their bravery and dedication is beyond doubt - but, in fact, expected. They are all owed our unbounded gratitude, fire after fire, year after year. They risk their lives to protect ours.
What was the greatest surprise for me in the La Tuna Fire was the bravery of about ten ordinary citizens who instead of sheltering in their homes, opted to save the cultural gem of the foothills, the McGroarty Arts Center on the slopes adjoining to the area that first started burning and continued through Friday, Saturday and Sunday, with flareups on Monday.
Willow Bosco and her mother Austina, McGroarty Board member, stayed at the Center overnight; Willow, a delicate young student, with remarkable strength handled the hose, soaking the Center's roof and walls, and all the nearby trees with water. Volunteer firefighter Bill Myers brought the extra long hoses and used them, working along with other volunteers, whom I met on Sunday afternoon, to soak burning trees on Saturday and ensure that all vegetation and ground were thoroughly wet to prevent further flareups on Sunday. The fire came down the hill and some trees in the park surrounding the Center burst into flames. We were perilously close to losing this cultural landmark, the home of the former poet laureate of California, John Steven McGroarty. The flareups were extinguished thanks to heroic efforts of Willow, Austina, Bill and many others whose names I did not get...
Ray Yocum, ceramics teacher was a fireman for three days.
Willow Bosco took out fires with water
Ray Yocum and Willow Bosco rest after two long days of fire-fighting.
Bill Meyers and Michelle Ramage
he says he "only brought the hose"
she that "only came with food"
Austina and Willow Bosco
Austina says she did not do it, just the neighbors
and her beautiful, brave daughter
they smile, relieved
after red-black days of fighting fires -
they saved the foothills' gem
Thank you to the heroes and heroines of the McGroarty Arts Center! Willow and Austina Bosco, Ray Yocum, Michelle Ramage from the McGroarty Arts Center, and the MAC's neighbors: Bill Meyers, Kenny Webb, Ben Grupp, Will Meyers, Chris Hall, and Curtis Cunningham.
Where was I? In my pomegranate and rose garden, editing a book, looking at clouds of smoke, watching the helicopters flying above every minute, back and forth, with water for the fire, and packing my personal music and poetry archive. Lots of manuscripts, early prints, signed books, letters, the family photo archives of my parents. So many suitcase of paper.
red bird in the sky
brings blue water to red flames
for victory of blue
Paper, not gold. My jewelry was stolen earlier, half of it, at least... along with my real camera, photo backup drive, family heirlooms, and more. For the whole week I was searching through, checking the losses, so the fire was not the threat that it seems to have been. Clothes and electronics can be replaced, but who will repaint an artwork that took Toti O'Brien 18 years to make? Square by square, drawn and embroidered, it came into being to adorn my wall...
Such is life in the foothills in dry, fire-prone California: waiting for the next wildfire, packing precious documents to be saved in case the flames come too close, hoping that this one and the next one will pass us by... And admiring the mountains, or rather the bare hills and canyons, covered with the velvet of green grass in the spring, with the velvet of gold grass in the rest of the year.
I wrote several poems about these mountains, and here's an older one.
Mountain Watch
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.
I did not write that many poems about the end of the world, though I've been fascinated with disaster movies for a while, especially 2012, showing how the fabric of this world may be rolled back and unrolled again, in a different configuration. There are ends of the world happening on this Earth all the time, at all times. Every day, every time someone dies, it is the end of this world for that one person. And, sometimes, almost the end of the world for the people around them.
A purple anemone of mourning life and death, hurricanes and earthquakes - the spark, the heart, survives
And what about the hurricanes that flatten whole islands? Tsunamis that wash villages and cities away? Earthquakes that fold tall buildings into stacks of pancakes? Or crazy people shooting innocents to scare the rest of us into submission, into slavery? Yes, there are plenty of the ends of the world every minute.
Elijah's End
And the curtains of fire opened. And God walks through. And I fall on my knees Struck down by the might Of his presence.
And the ground under my feet Roars and trembles. And God is with me.
In awe, I do not dare to look Into the laughing beauty of his eyes. And the gale changes into a breeze. And God speaks in a whisper, Sweetly announcing The end of the world as it was.
And the sun stops in its tracks. And the world explodes. Filled with love, so much love, It could not bear existing For one more minute.
— now it ends -- — now it blossoms -- — now it grows again --
Easter Apocalypsis —After "The Discovery of Heaven" by Harry Mulisch
It is coming. The angels know. They dwell in their Piranesi castles, twisted spaces where outside is inside. They are not indifferent. Not too smart for their own good. Not cruel. They don't tell us.
The end is coming, it is near. Not death, mind you, not that ugly spinster without its twin. No. The end of the end. Finis. The satin fabric of a wedding dress trails behind the veiled beauty as she glides towards her beloved.
The river's end tastes of salt in its own mouth, opened widely into the waves of the ocean. Nothing we can do will stop it. Just stretch your fingers, let the water cool your skin.
Why resist? Heraclitus dipped his toes in this river. Shape-note singers praised it. Saints dove in and swam around, luxuriating in incandescent glories that passed us by.
The end is coming, flowing swiftly down the slopes. Let's sit on the porch, doze off in honeyed sunlight, before it, too, disappears, transfigured.
Let us believe there will be light enough inside us —that kindling of kindness, a half-forgotten smile— to keep us afloat in the final flood coming, coming to erase the world and remake it, anew, bejeweled.
(C) By Maja Trochimczyk, published in The Scream Online http://www.thescreamonline.com/poetry/poetry7-4/trochimczyk.html
