To Be the Editor or Author, That is the Question! California Quarterly 49:4

California Quarterly Vol. 49, No. 4, Winter 2023. Cover Art: Popocatepetl, Spirited Morning—Mexico by Marsden Hartley (1877-1943). Oil on board, 25x29 in. Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Sam Rose and Julie Walters, 1932

I recently had the pleasure of editing the California Quarterly, Volume 49, Number 4, Winter 2023,  and selecting work by 42 poets. I found 58 poems that fit on the allotted pages of the journal and selected a classic American painting by Marsden Hartley for the cover. The full table of contents is posted on CaliforniaStatePoetrySociety.com blog:

 https://www.californiastatepoetrysociety.com/2023/11/contents-of-california-quarterly-vol-49.html

In my list of publications the majority of books are edited, I like reading work by others and juxtaposing their insights into a rich tapestry of voices, a counterpoint of humanity as it were. I could write more by myself, but seldom have the motivation to do so. Among my music history books, only three were written entirely by me: my doctoral dissertation on space in music, a study of Polish Folk Dance in California (by Columbia University Press) and a history of the Modjeska Club that I preside upon and that recently celebrated its 50th anniversary. The rest are collected or co-authored volumes. 

Among my poetry books also there are quite a few anthologies with contributions by up to 90+ poets. The most recent book, Crystal Fire. Poems of Joy and Wisdom, had 12 contributors. It is nice to put the insights by different people side by side to see the threads that join their work, and note the differences. When working with poems for anthologies I ask for more submissions than could be published and select what I like the best. The choice is simple: I like it or I do not like it. It is not a value judgment of the quality of the poem or the poet. It is my own taste that comes into play. 

If I like too many poems by one poet, I try to publish more than one, or select what fits what the emergent, overall theme of the issue. In the Winter 2023 issue of the California Quarterly the obvious theme of winter, snow, cold, farewells, was juxtaposed with the theme of rain, because there were so many "rain" poems among the submissions.  So in my editor's note, reprinted below, I start from a quote from a "rain" poem by Leopold Staff that also imitates the regular pattern of raindrops in its rhythm.

In English, the most common Greek meters are iamb (short-long), trochee (long-short), dactyl (long-short-short) and anapest (short-short-long). In Polish with its preferred penultimate-syllable accent, the most common is amphibrach (short-long-short), with a name that means "short-on-both-sides."  Leopold Staff uses this meter throughout his "rain" poem - and its repetitiveness serves as an illustration of the noise of the rain in a beautiful example of onomatopoeia, but also captures the endless dreariness and melancholy of loneliness. I'm often alone but very seldom lonely, so to me it is a very distant poem. I do not cite it as a whole... In the reprinted note below, I marked up the accents that align themselves into a regular pattern, repeating throughout.

Popocatepetl, Spirited Morning—Mexico by Marsden Hartley (1877-1943). Oil on board, 25x29 in. Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Sam Rose and Julie Walters, 1932

 EDITOR'S NOTE

“O szyby deszcz dzwoni, 

deszcz dzwoni jesienny 

 I pluszcze jednaki, 

miarowy niezmienny...” 

                                                                                                    (Leopold Staff, Deszcz Jesienny)

In Leopold Staff’s poem I memorized at school, the onomatopoeia of “sh” and “ch” sounds (“sz” and “cz” in Polish) illustrates the sound of rain. I do not know how to translate it into English while keeping the sound, the rhythm, and the meaning intact. It is difficult to make transition from one language to the next… 

Why do we love or hate rain? There are several rain poems in this issue—by serendipity, perhaps. In northern countries, when drizzle falls too often from gray, overcast skies, rain is associated with melancholy, sorrow, and depression (O’Sullivan, Sapp, and Beynon). It became a stereotype. Just think of Disney movies, when the heroine starts to cry… 

In hot, desert countries, rain brings with it blessings of food, life, and love (Rosenheim, Skaldetvind, Stuart). What about snow, then? A blessing or a curse, depending on how much snow falls, for how long. Under the northern lights, it is a view to behold (Luisi). In Chinese movies snowflakes caught in lovers’ hands signify the abundance of affection. In northern countries, we have the “White Christmas” – though the event giving rise to this holiday took place in the desert, under a palm tree. 

What matters is the celebration of “now” – as in the poem by W.C. Gosnell, or The Night Heron by Jennifer M Phillips: “Open your fist. There is nothing to grasp.” Phillip Jason wisely advises the reader that all experiences are meant to “turn you into good.” Yes, we should cherish our days “without thorns” (Jane Stuart), when stars blink in Morse Code that “nothing is over” (Zanelli) and angels make “you sing / And sing and sing / Like a joyful child.” 

During winter holidays, whether skiing, cooking, or wrapping gifts, we become like children, engrossed in the moment, watching a blue balloon, “rising into a sky” (Machan). If we cannot let go of sorrow, we may find solace in dreams (Hitt, Fraley), or prayer (Silberstein, DiOrio). Per Quantum Entanglement (Hammerschick), we are all One, anyway…

In addition to poems that moved me, this issue presents the winners of the 36th Annual Poetry Contest. It is clear that the taste of the Contest Judge, Anna Maria Mickiewicz, is markedly different from mine. This diversity is a gift to be cherished.

Maja Trochimczyk California Quarterly

Los Angeles, California  Volume 49, Number 4

Marsden Hartley, Yliaster (Paracelsus), 1932, oil on paperboard mounted on particleboard, 25 1⁄4 x 28 1⁄2 in. (64.1 x 72.4 cm.), Smithsonian American Art Museum, Museum purchase made possible by the Smithsonian Institution Collections Acquisition Program and by George Frederick Watts and Mrs. James Lowndes, 1988.53

 

OUTSIDE, TONIGHT

A cold evening rain—
wind-soaked shadows, purple pine
clumps of clinging moss

...invisible wind
warmed by sparkles of sunlight,
cooled by winter's rain

A soft fallen snow
drifting over evergreen
floating through the night

 ~ Jane Stuart, Flatwoods, Kentucky

Just like Leopold Staff, Jane Stuart looked out the window and saw a rainy landscape, slowly turning into one of snow, I like poems that capture the moment, the lyrical "now" in few words evoking an image that carries in it its own emotion. 

My own poem, written specifically for the California Quarterly, was inspired by a photograph I saw somewhere of a snow lotus, that looked quite bizarre and otherworldly to me, so I wondered if it would be worth my time to travel to the Himalayas to see these rare blossoms with my own eyes. In a stream of consciousness, I then thought about traveling to all the other countries, and being faithful just to one, or two, and of course back to the flowering meadows of my childhood and the inevitable skylark above. This is what the engineers of our fate want to deprive us of, the wide open spaces of fertile fields, the peaceful meadows, life in the countryside.

A garden filled with birdsong is a great substitute for a childhood meadow, so I love my life in California. Why should I travel then? If all I love is right there? When the plandemic started and injections became mandatory I decided I'd rather not go anywhere ever again. It was my own choice so I did not travel for quite a while, I can drive around LA, go to the ocean, go to a concert, and I tend to leave my phone at home, with humorous conversations with my car, yes car, that puts messages on its screen telling me to not forget my phone, and frantically trying to connect to other phones it detects nearby... So funny. The car that talks.  So weird. The car that keeps track of what I do and what I carry with me. Welcome to the dystopia of electronic leashes, smart 15-minute cities, and totalitarian control. 

San Gabriel Mountains, California. Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

THE SNOW LOTUS

White, like starfish skeletons
deep in the ocean, snow lotus blooms
in a barren Himalayan valley.
Do I have to touch its smooth petals
to live my life to the full? Do I have to
learn 200 anthems of 200 nations,
celebrate their independence 200 times?
Countries I'd never visit, even in my dreams.

It is good enough to learn just one valiant
anthem, a “call to arms” mazurka—or maybe
two—in my case of abandoned childhood
meadows, sprinkled with stokrotki daisies,
maki, chabry i rumianki—I was lured away
by exotic beauty, the bright bougainvillea,
with her myriad butterfly eyes. Too late I saw—
though different, it was still the same.
 
I sing a new anthem among strangers
at a concert—words flicker in darkness
on the screen of my phone—I am supposed
to take it everywhere with me—my car said so,
and keeps looking for it, when I go out
without my electronic leash. So, I'll leave
alone cold, limp petals of the snow lotus,
bewilderingly alien on its gravel plane.

I'll dream of watching clouds float by—
scoops of meringue in the pristine blue,
pierced by skylark's song cascading
onto fields of May-green barley. There is
no reason to go anywhere but inwards—
on the one journey into the silent glow
of stokrotki meadows within my heart.

 ~ Maja Trochimczyk, Los Angeles, California

"Stokrotki" are small white daisies scattered over Polish lawn and meadows; white with gold center, they are lovely, and make the grass more interesting; white clover does the same, but stokrotki are prettier. "Maki, chabry, i rumanki" - poppies, cornflower, and chamomile daisies are three common field flowers from Polish countryside, often depicted together as an unofficial symbol of the Polish nation in red, blue and white.  Are they prettier than the rare and exquisite snow lotus? Depends who's looking... 

Rumianki in a Polish field, Trzebieszow, photo by Maja Trochimczyk, May 2023

Maki, or wild poppies in a field of rye. Trzebieszow, May 2023, Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

Chabry, or cornflowers in a field of wheat, Trzebieszow, May 2023, Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

Jayne Jaudon Ferrer wrote an exquisite simple poem to all her readers asking them to do what I used to do so often during my Polish childhood: go outside, for a walk, stroll, or hike. Enjoy being close to nature, to what's real and what's around you.

PETITION


Morning comes and,
with it, headlines
blaring hate and carnage
and suffering and sadness
and depravity and duplicity
and defeat.

Turn off the TV.
Put down the paper.
Walk outside.
Give yourself up
to fresh air and sunlight,
to butterflies and birdsong,
to growing things and
grazing things and
hope.
Rise above,
be lifted up,
inhale
and hold on,
hold on.

Jayne Jaudon Ferrer

Greenville, South Carolina

Clouds in a Polish countryside. Trzebieszow, May 2023. Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

What's So Rewarding About Being Creative?

Selfie with the snow, January 2023, Los Angeles National Forest

I recently wrote answers to a set of questions for a Canvas Rebel Interview, posted in October 2023.  Here's the answer to one question. The rest can be found on their website:

https://canvasrebel.com/meet-maja-trochimczyk/

What do you find most rewarding about being a creative?

My small publishing house, Moonrise Press, is an outgrowth of my own creative activities. I did not think of myself as a poet or photographer, when still living in Poland, I was a listener, an audience member, a scholar… Then, after moving to America, after losing the ground under my feet, my native culture, language, land, family, friends – I had to re-create myself to survive, So the first benefit of being a poet was creating and asserting my own identity as “me” through my art. Finally, I was not writing about what others thought and did, I was writing about what I felt, what I thought. 

While this “poetry as self-expression” is at the root of so many bad books, so many failed artistic efforts, it is also healing, it is also empowering. It gives you the strength to survive and go on. These aspects of creativity should never be discounted or ignored… Artistic criteria and “taste” change in time, evolve with shifting fashions – but being true to yourself in your words, expressing the deepest emotions and the most personal thoughts will never go out of fashion! 

The joy of being creative is in the very act of creation. Someone said that when creating we become truly Divine, we are the Divine co-creators of this beautiful world. Therefore, we are responsible for the worlds we conjure up with our words and images. Are these worlds dystopian, hideous? Are these worlds full of light, joy, laughter, beauty?

Cloudscape on the Way to Chicago, October 2023

When I was studying music history, I was told to never write about “beauty” in music, only about “know-how” of compositional techniques and the mechanism of the artwork taken apart in analysis like a clockwork… I never fully agreed with that, so in my own poetry and photography I happily capture and share with others what I find beautiful, inspirational, good, true…

 I still believe in Platonian trinity of beauty=goodness=truth. Also in the Three L trinity of Life=Love=Light. Creating beauty, building new, fantastic worlds – what could be better than that? Self-expression is good, but my advice to poets is borrowed from Clancy Imislund of the Midnight Mission (where I worked on grant proposals for a while): “Absolutely No Whining!”

A Way Not to Be - A Chemtrail Landscape, Sunland, October 2023

The photo above is something to "whine" about - chemtrails, made deliberately by planes in the past, drones or planes more recently. What for? Who knows? Dimming to sun because of, gasp, OMG, climate change"?  Or increasing the amount of metal nanoparticles in the atmosphere and organic matter to make it all more visible to the machines? Or changing the weather, so we get rain or no rain, drought or floods, depending on the "weather-controllers"' whimsy? There are plenty of patents and plenty of proof worldwide. But no "official" acknowledgement. Event a White House petition I signed many years ago failed to reach 10,000 signatures. ... Oh, well, what can I do? 

Instead, let's read two different "whining" poems just for fun; since the time of the great contradiction comes, the time that somehow impresses shopkeepers and shoppers so much they want to recreate cemeteries and skeletons to scare us at Halloween. Another reason to go on a shopping spree and buy imitations of severed hands and bloody eyeballs. Sick. 

But what if we are not afraid of death at all? What if all we want is to celebrate life? In the material world death is inevitable and necessary; otherwise there would be not enough room for all of us. Imagine living along with all the dinosaurs that ever lived, in forests forever full of gigantic mushrooms and ferns... trying to run away from pterodactyls, and the dreaded T-rex teeth... 

Well, it is much better to live, make the best of this life, make all the right choices, create and share joy and learn the most important lessons, primarily of gratitude, wonder, love... Sometimes these lessons are very tricky, too tricky... We do not even pay attention when too busy with our gadgets: Roku, Xumo, X-Box, iPhone... They capture our attention, suck us into a black hole of absence from reality. So we do not look up, do not see the striped skies of chemtrails, do not pay attention to the birds flying by...

Take, for instance, the crow, a "failed primadonna" and an enemy of my beloved songbirds. How happy I was when watching a mockingbird couple take upon four crows that tried to get into the bushes to eat their babies. Their heroism dedicated to protecting their children knew no bounds.  It is easy to protect your children when you are a mockingbird fighting with crows. It is much harder when surrounded by so much propaganda with so many institutions trying to take away your parental rights. Maybe it is time to exit all these institutions, move somewhere to a homestead in the middle of nowhere, to raise children close to nature, in peace.... 

Cloudscape II. The Way to Chicago

No, there are no crows here, I dislike them so sincerely I never take photos of them.

What Do I Know About a Crow

 

This crow has ambitions of a diva,

in her shiny black dress of smooth feathers

bejeweled by jets of black beak and eyes

She wants to sing in the opera, bask in

the applause of an enraptured audience

 

This crow years to be a primadonna

on the stage, yet her beak emits

rough squacks and grating kra – kra – kra

not enchanting in the least.

 

There is a note of exasperation in her voice:

“Why me? Why can’t I sing? Why this voice?” 

Who knows. We need crows and nightingales.

 

Light and darkness. The fluted polished

Melodies. That thrill of electric current

down the spine and the harsh warnings

“Go, go, go, time to go,

it is over.”

Published in Zwierzenia Zwierza anthology

 in Poland (Bezkres, 2020) 

 

Sunrise with Palm Trees on my Street

No crows here either. And no chemtrails, the sunrise beam points upwards... 

 Crows are the Messengers

Of fate, their harsh voices carry far through the valley

Go, go, go it is over, it is time, go.

They fly through blue skies like smudges of wood smoke

A warning. Think what you do and why.

They announce the verdict. They invade your space

in the black hour of retribution. 

You do not believe me? When you locked yourself 

in my house, and suddenly homeless I stood outside, calling 911,

 at least twenty crows paraded on the street, screeching.  

Why? Crows are the messengers. They come back 

if you do not heed their warnings. Remember when 

you knocked at my door, on the run again, seeking shelter? 

Ready to take over my life, as if I owed you? 

I half-listened to your pleading and watched 

two crows on the pine branch behind you

passing morsels of bread to each other. A warning?

A lesson of what to do? Of what not to do? Should I forget

that my mom's jewels had disappeared with you 

like smoke from last year’s fires? 

Did two crows in the pine tree tell me

to turn you away? Did they ask me to care? 

I’m not skilled in reading signs. I followed my heart, 

the fortune cookie said so. Always walk in the path of your heart. 

So I said no to you and yes to my children. And that’s all 

for today, the end of the crows and of you.

Published in Zwierzenia Zwierza 

anthology in Poland (Bezkres, 2020)

Pure Gold in Sunlight

Some people never learn, am I one of them? Or am I just inching forward and upward so slowly it seems to impartial observers I'm sliding back? Well, if I keep my eyes firmly on my goal and if I do not swerve from the straight and narrow, and if, after failing, I pick up the pieces and return to my straight and narrow of doing what's right, what's the best possible option for the largest possible number of people and other sentient beings around me... then I just float upward, into the light. 

The Egyptian Book of the Dead said that after death the heart is weighed on a scale against a single feather. If the heart is lighter than a feather, the soul can float up into the realm of bliss, if the heart is heavy with fear, worry, hate, anger, resentment, dislike - the soul has to come back and redo the lessons again and again. So let's try to be light as a feather. The first step: "absolutely no whining!"

 

When it Rains... And the Emperor Wears No Clothes... Write a Poem

 

It rains. It was supposed to be some apocalyptic Hurricane Hillary, but what we got is lots of water for our tired Southern California gardens. The stream in our canyon is also filling up. It changed its course last winter, taking out our pathway with it, I wonder if it will shift again. The Big Tujunga Canyon, is indeed "big" and the stream can pick and chose where to go... In my garden, I'm filling out containers with rainwater - I bought a bunch of plastic boxes at Big Lots and will have water for at least three rounds of going from rose bush to rose bush with a bucket. After the winter rains, unusually abundant this year, my DWP water and power bill dropped from an average of $350 to $191 for two months, the lowest I've seen since I moved into this house 25 years ago. I stopped using the hose (the sprinklers died long ago), and had lovely exercise watering my garden every second day with the rainwater I saved from the winter storms... 

So it is time to look at poems. I've been so busy with other people's poetry in the Crystal Fire anthology (2022), and in the California Quarterly - ensuring the issues can go to print, but occasionally also editing as I did 49/2 - that I have not written anything of my own. But, wait, I forgot: I actually penned a ballad inspired by current denialist movement... denying biology and common sense. Our times resemble, more and more, the story from that Andersen's tale about the naked emperor ... Only a child could see it. Aren't we all exhorted to become like children? Able to see? So here it is...

A Chromosome Ballad

 

The mothers of mothers of mothers

     plant seeds, care, and give birth.

          The fathers of fathers of fathers

                 plant seeds, care, and protect.

The mothers and fathers

     and sisters and brothers

          come here in organized waves.

The mothers and fathers

            and sisters and brothers

                   leave Earth after passing their tests.

 When grandmas and grandpas have learned how to live,

   when moms, dads, aunts, uncles shared wisdom as if

      they each had a thousand-year-old treasure chest

         they could open with DNA keys at their best

                     matched in pairs XX and XY, 

                        intertwined XX and XY

               strand after strand unwinding in pairs

               to give you your eyes of hazel or gray,

         your hair blond or brown, skin of varied hues,

   your brilliance and talents, your gifts and your moods.

       

Remember the pathways

         they came on and left—

                  the mothers and fathers

                              of east and of west.

It was published in the Academic Questions of the National Association of Scholars, Spring 2023.  My company was quite illustrious: William Wadsworth, John Milton's Sonnet No. 19, a poem by Catharine Brosman Savage ("Old Fashioneds"). Two women and two men; two classics and two newbies... 

The poem I included in my issue of the California Quarterly Vol. 49 No. 2 was partly posted here in September. Now, after its official publication, it is time to publish the whole. It was a lovely issue with an amazing cover. Since my artist had a family tragedy to deal with and could not send her works in time, I asked for permission to use a cropped photo taken by my son-in-law, Chris Hannemann, during a family walk in San Diego Botanical Gardens. In a play area, I blew soap bubbles to amuse my 18-month-old granddaughter. . . I can truly consider myself a co-author of this photo: my breath is inside these bubbles, immortalized for all to see...

This poem is inspired by a gift from my son, who got me Roku, so I could watch what I want after we all gave up on Netflix. I found the whole bunch of Chinese historical and fantasy dramas, with twisted plots, flying ballet of impossible martial arts, and amazing costumes and decorations - quite a different world. No porn, no torture, no twisted values - instead, bravery, honor, respecting family and loving the homeland, nobility, heroism and romance... What's not to like? Maybe there is something... I picked the name of Luo Jin as a co-star of Princess Weiyoung, where he was romantically coupled with his real-life wife, Tiffany Tang. Their chemistry on screen in this fantasy fiction was so touching! 

I Fell in Love with Luo Jin

On the screen, his eyes are smiling,

when a corner of his mouth lifts up 

in a rakish smirk. I love his bravado— 

as he saves maidens from hungry demons,

flies through the air while shooting arrows,

suspended from steel cables, cranes—

in a deceptive, engineering feat.

I am in love with Luo Jin,

tenderly plucking guzheng strings,

wistfully gazing at the midnight sky,

or into eyes of his on-screen lover,

his real wife. Betrayal? Never!

He gives me of what I can only dream.

Like me, billions of others love Mr. Jin,

seduced by the grand illusion of the film.

His sword ballet is an aerial dance—

killing without the stench or rot 

of corpses—purest joy—Oh, Luo Jin!

It is hard work to star in Chinese drama—

learning to fight, ride horses, swim,

give orders with a motion of one brow,

threaten by a slight narrowing of eyes—

subtle, grim. The actor must obey 

directors, bosses, toe the party line—

deny the genocide, ignore the Uyghurs,

harvested organs, protests, Falun Gong.

Alas, he must, he must—deny the facts,

spread visions of imperial glory, serve. 

the Emperor who may send courtiers, 

whole clans even, to death on a mere whim! 

(Familiar? Always…)

Stoic in pain, serene in bliss,

he’s gentle, modest, as love fills

his expressive eyes. What do lovers do?

Embrace each other under a firework-

blazing sky, make paper lanterns

that float away on a summer breeze,

carrying the wishes for what could not be,

fly diamond kites above the verdant valley,

stroll, holding hands, through swirls

of falling petals—sweet cherry 

blossoms of eternal spring.

(c) Maja Trochimczyk, First published in California Quarterly, Vol. 49, No. 3 (Summer 2023). Another occasional poem, inspired not by the news, but by a history project that took a lot of time since 2000, that is writing the 50-year history of Helena Modjeska Art & Culture Club, arose from my reflections about the biography of the Club's founder, Leonidas Dudarew-Ossetynski (1910-1989), an aristocrat, actor, director, teacher, journalist... With lots of materials from his daughter Valerie Dudarew-Ossetynska Hunken, I'm writing out his first ever biography. The first version for the Album 50-lecia Klubu Kultury im. Heleny Modrzejewskiej (2021) had some omissions. The English version is forthcoming in the English book based on the assortment of materials in the edited Album, entitled Celebrating Modjeska in California. It will be expanded in a volume of Ossetynski's own studies and lectures. A fascinating, neglected, misunderstood person, with politics mixed into the arts that caused a rift in the memory of his achievements. The basics are clear. The achievements not to be denied or hidden any more. 

 

Lucy Dzierzkowska, portrait of Leonidas Dudarew-Ossetyński, lost, previously in family collections. Photo from the archives of Valerie Hunken. The military uniform is now on display at the Polish Museum of America in Chicago.

The Prophet

  

~ For Leonidas Dudarew Ossetyński (1910-1989), 

   founder of Helena Modjeska Art & Culture Club

 

And they say he looked like a bum –

barefoot, with long white beard and disheveled hair –

this “Lithuanian” prince,  Boyar Dudarew, kniaź.

Adam in a Christmas pageant. Black-leather biker.

On screen – a guru, villain, hero, larger than life.

 

An exemplar of cruel fate suffered by millions – 

deported, exiled, vilified, like him removed 

from the living fabric of their nations

by winds of history – not random, and not blind – 

Purposeful in dispersing leaders of afflicted nations, 

destroying the most talented and bright.

Bravely, he fought Germans in two armies. 

Captured, he escaped from a war prisoners camp.

A double veteran, after death, was finally honored. 

His whole life – of a fierce patriot serving Poland,

A glorious idea, far greater than himself. 

 

Requiem for all victims of all wars  

at the Music Center? – a ten-year project! 

Inspiring dramas for his Modjeska Players? 

Through him Mrożek’s Emigranci came to life.  

Witkacy’s Matka awed critics, won ten prizes. 

 

A correspondent of Prince Giedroyć’s journal,

known in Paris, London and New York, 

it is L.A. he chose as site for Polish culture –

a dream of survivors, creative, noble, proud. 

With stage success of Modjeska as a model,

he brought musicians, actors to play and dance.

His goal: so far on the antipodes, to build,

defend and cherish an outpost of high culture, 

the heritage of a nation that too many willed to die. 

 

Survival is the skill of those who can endure.

Resilience is the talent of refusing to give up.

Wild Leonidas, with long white beard and hair,

was a true prophet for all émigrés and exiles, 

dispersed by winds of history, without mercy,    

scattered throughout the strange, stark world. 

Leonidas Dudarew-Ossetynski's portrait, a favorite of his daughter. 

Not All About Roses... Dreams, Gardens, and Clearing Karma in the Spring

 How vivid are your dreams? Mine are so intense that I'm sometimes completely disoriented when I wake up and find myself in my house in California instead of where the night-time adventures took me. I was so busy and now I'm resting? That's so strange... I think and start another day.  

Dreams are great for poems, though so I thought I'll write down the two dreams I had and make them into poems of sorts, too long and narrative for journal submission, but just right for the wordy blog.

On Friday after a Dream of Cleaning Vases

I ran away from demons, chasing me through crowded streets.

I cleaned off layers of black paint from an antique vase 

I inherited from my parents. See? It's smooth surface glistens 

as cobalt phoenixes dance in white, porcelain sky.

Let's arrange flowers you brought in this graceful vase -

hyacinth, irises and daisies, a pastel bouquet on clouds of sweet alyssum. 

No? How about a rose rainbow from my garden? Compassion, 

Yellow Mellow, Double Delight and French Perfume. Do not forget

the charms of decades-old Love at First Sight! Its scarlet petals lined with silver

remind you that nothing is ever simple. Everything changes. Nothing lasts. 

Let's walk down the garden path scented with orange blossoms.

Forget the lilacs of your youth. Let's smell the roses, shall we? 

The hybrid teas have a slight flavor but here's the Grande Dame - 

so magnificent in her fragrant, magenta gown.

Tired? Let me serve you Armenian tea - honey-hued, translucent liquid, 

steaming from the delicate China cup. Let's raise a toast

to timeless values. Let's celebrate togetherness and peace. 

There was a time to run. Time to stop running. 

There is a time to say "Enough!"  No pasaran. 

They shall not pass. When you say "No" 

They have to listen. It is the Cosmic Law, you know. 

Do not give up. You'll win your life back through loyalty and strength. 

Balance  your courage with the virtue of restraint. Hone justice 

with ageless wisdom. Do not be cruel. Always stay kind. 

Be careful - don't break the crystal core of your new heart!

How hard the lessons! How many failures haunt the past!  

Do not look back.  Regrets will turn you into a fierce demon. 

Breathe deeply, slowly in my vibrant garden. 

Live now, drink tea from Grandma's favorite, gold-rimmed cup!

May 8, 2023

The poem is inspired by a dream of washing a black-painted vase that slowly reveals its Chinese pattern of dancing phoenixes, blue on white. It seems like magic, removing dirt of the past, accumulated through generations, or done on purpose out of spite, to reveal such timeless, elegant beauty. There is a deeper meaning to the dream - the cleaning of ancestral karma, the hard work it takes to dissolve generations-old weight of ill emotions, regrets, despair. 

But then, there is the garden, birdsong and roses.  It's been my lifesaver in the plandemic, a refuge of serenity and beauty. I survived my bout of illness outside in sunlight, sweating it out while birds sang and orange blossoms filled the air with heavenly scent.  It is so important to be close to nature. Just enjoy life - of plants, birds, lizards, clouds. So much joy in ever leaf, every chirp and note of every winged creature. I was raised in a house with a garden, and loved going outside every day to watch the narcissus and daffodils sprout in their circles on the flowerbed, watch the golden forsythia bloom in an avalanche of petals, wait for the cherries to ripen, play with the willow branches, or read a book on the lawn.  Such simple, ageless delights. No TV, no fancy parties, just being alive in nature being alive, flowering and fruitful. 

When looking for a house in California I picked the one I've been living in for 25 years because of its large garden, fruit trees, and roses, so many patent roses planted back in the early 1950s, Four of these bushes are still alive, still blooming. A couple were "murdered" by a gardener whom I promptly fired - cut them down below the single bud, so the transplanted large-blossom hybrids could not grow back. These roses are "hybrid" because they grow from other roses' stronger roots.  At times the parent will try to bloom as well, shooting long branches out with small red flowers.  

The roses I inherited - Mister Lincoln, Compassion, Peace and Love at First Sight are still lovely, but not really fragrant. For delightful rose scents, I have to turn to the roses I planted - French Perfume, Mellow Yellow, Pop Art, and Grande Dame, Firefighter... The last two are quite alike, despite their names - dark wine-red in hue, huge double flowers, with rounded petals, more magenta in tone than wine of the Grande Dame.  Who would have thought that Firefighter would not smell of smoke and sweat? The Mellow Yellow is not as extraordinarily beautiful as the Oregold of darker, richer yellow and almost no scent. But the fragrance! I decided never to buy roses without rose scent again. 

Colors are interesting, too. Many of my roses are of a single tone - Mister Lincoln of dark, velvety wine-red, Electron and Compassion of clear, vivid pink, Mellow Yellow of creamy, sunny hue, the wine-red-magenta Grande Dame and Firefighter, and of course the pure white Iceberg floribunda bush, that guards the door with its year-round profusion of delicate blooms. 

Charmed by the Love at First Sight I inherited, I looked for two-tone roses and found Peace and Chicago Peace of white, light yellow and pink, Double Delight of white with dark pink edges, Deep Purple with burgundy edges on purple blooms, Rainbow Sorbet of yellow, orange, pinkish red changing in hues as they age, and, my most recent discovery, a fragrant Pop Art, its yellow petals striped with pink. The best of the best - both lovely and fragrant!  I have not kept the tags from these bushes, so I may have forgotten - one bush with pink-yellow-white blossoms seems to be Dream Come True. Another with soft-pink huge flowers = is it Carefree Wonder? 

This year I added some blue to my palette - small stems of szafirki and mid-size blue-yellow Japanese iris. Strong rusty orange in bunches of gazania compete with miniature carnations in white, pink and amaranth. White and pink African daisies I bought for 1$ each are still filling in the palette.  I'm very sensitive to color, so much so that I do not like black and white films, and do not go to see exhibits of drawings, which, in black and white are simply boring. But add color and the image explodes!  So here's another, more colorful dream, that went from jewel hues into pure gold and diamond of intense, joyful light. My life seems to follow the same trajectory. 

On Sunday, After a Dream of Jewel Lights

I remember us, together, flying upwards through the infinite 

lapis of cosmic expanse measured in constellations.

Intertwined in a tight embrace, we were one.  

Two halves of a divine apple of energy - twirling, swirling 

in a feeria of jewel hues - ruby, emerald, sapphire. 

Oh, how I miss those timeless days, years, eras of untold bliss! 

Language was not needed. Transparent to each other, 

we shared thoughts i an instant of yes, always yes.

We crash-landed on a small, distant planet of green forests

 and aquamarine seas.  Everything became heavy, dense 

on this continent of eroding rocks and cold rains.

Separated, we looked for each other in life after life, 

we passed test after test of  unforgetting. 

Would you recognize me without the crown of cosmic jewels? 

Would I find you in an alien landscape of chaparral and muddy winter streams? 

How could I tell it is you, among the desert dust of degradation? 

Yes, always yes, I recognize you in the topaz eyes 

looking at me  with this irresistible energy of masculine 

desire, commanding me to do, what I do not want to do.

Would you still love me if I were an ancient crone?

Would I still love the demon you've become? 

Greedy and resentful, hungry for scraps of my affection, fucus, time? 

Oh how I yearn for our return to the interstellar realm 

of jewel lights. Purified through water, fire -  lost and found - 

we will ascend from ruby, emerald, sapphire

through the sphere of gold diamond rays

ever expanding into the luminous

intensity of grace.

Patience, patience is the key. 

May 8, 2023

 

Rafik Amadol's Living Paintings - Computers and Mimesis, Art Imitating Nature

Rafik Anadol's Living Paintings are extraordinary, especially the evolving landscapes where mountains rise and fall, oceans advance and withdraws, star constellations build glaciers that melt into lakes.  I was completely transfixed by their beauty, accidentally discovered during a visit to a Monday Evening Concert of Process Music... Then I came back for some more.  This was a three-month show at an art gallery in Los Angeles, but I somehow missed it. Too many art exhibits I saw were basically the same, boring, broken bits and pieces, the detritus of sick imagination. Nothing to it. 

But the three "California Landscapes" slow moving digital art based on landscape photographs were astounding! The explanatory notes talked about Artificial Intelligence being involved in the creation of these fantastic pieces; but I disagree. The computer could select individual trajectories of thousands of spheres floating around on the screens, but definitely did not come up with the whole idea. So the credit goes to the artist, in my mind. The California landscapes transforming into each other were my favorites. First, during my initial visit to the gallery, I admired the most the monumental waves of magma modelled from movement of air currents - a wall of images and colors, huge and amazing!  Then, I noticed the smaller, slower-evolving "living paintings" in the second room of the gallery. 

I think I was hypnotized by the evolution of the Earth I saw... I was joined on the bench in front of these three pieces by many others, resting their eyes on the beauty of artistically-transformed and ever evolving landscapes. Such delight!

Some of the misty mountain landscapes, with peaks rising and falling in shifting light of the seasons, spring, summer, fall, winter, day and night, rain and sunshine - reminded me of the most famous Romantic painting of solitude in the mountains by Caspar David Friedrich, "Wanderer above the Sea of Fog" (1818). 

A sole man above a fog-covered valley, alone on a mountain peak, became the key symbol of romantic solitude and reflection, the key to the sublime.  Mr. Amadol found a different version or many different versions of the sublime in shifting, clashing, transforming patterns of movement and color. 

After a Visit to an Art Gallery

In a hall of Rafik Anadol's living paintings

the Universe breathes and moves,

mountain ranges rise and fall,

oceans clash and dance.

If I could live a million or a billion years 

that's how I'd see the Earth - rising and falling - 

a sea morphs into a lake shrouded in mists, 

becomes the bottom of a mountain valley, 

a melting glacier among snow-covered peaks, 

under a cluster of alien stars.  

Living, breathing matter folds itself into itself

pulled by invisible strings of constellations. 

Patterns twist and evolve in waves 

upon waves of transient beauty.

So that's what it was, that's what it is. 

Nothing's fixed. There is no ground under our feet.

Everything's fluid. Only the endless motion.   

The image above with multiple lines pulling itself into new shapes is a fragment of a larger, vertical "living painting" made from photographs of California landscapes, mountains, hills, lakes and oceans that slowly shift from one into another.  The impression of watching California in geological time of whole eras is indelible.  The fascination endless. No wonder so many young people were sitting in front of these evolving images for so long, transfixed by the evolution of the planet. 

The images were made from thousands of data points fed into a computer and then calculated by the machine. Rafik Amadol, a Turkish artist, calls this machine creation and AI art, but I think it is Mr. Amadol's art -after all he programmed the machine, selected the images and made Art to Imitate Nature in the grandest and most ancient tradition of mimesis.  In ancient aesthetic theories, "mimesis" or "imitation" of nature by art was its highest value.  

This aesthetic hierarchy,  placing first Art Imitating Nature, then all other art, has persisted in Western culture for thousands of years, from ancient Greece to the early modern period. Only in the late 19th century the artists'  imagination became of more value than their ability to see and portray what they see. The breach with "Art Imitating Nature" took place.  Mimesis became the domain of "kitsch." The results, though at first laudable, as in impressionism, were ultimately disastrous. From the jokes of surrealists, through the distortions of cubists, we reached the weirdness of conceptualism.  After WWII we ended up with tons of garbage parading as art and pretending to have intrinsic value. 

I somehow fail to notice value in such grand-standing experiments; except in cases of painters inspired by geometry, color, or the art of seeing itself, like Mondrian, Klee, Dali, and Julian Stanczak. So, when visiting galleries and museums I tend to gravitate to galleries where Madonnas and saints may be found with their golden haloes and intricately detailed gowns. 

The crowds at Amadol's exhibit show that "Art Imitating Nature" is alive and well - and using huge banks of data of movement of Pacific Ocean, for instance, or shifting wind pressure, temperature and humidity around Los Angeles may result in the creation of unforgettable, vivid, hypnotically beautiful moving works of art. Hats off to the artist - for harnessing the machine to rediscover the ancient tradition of Mimesis and for restoring the principle of "artisanship" to art. Old masters spent a long time perfecting their paintings, portraits and landscapes. They did not just pour paint from backets or threw eggs on the wall. They actually worked on design, details of composition, details of textures, surfaces and expression to achieve the desired effect. Mr. Amadol harnessed the power of computing machines and software to achieve his goal of creating large-scale mobile artworks. So beautiful! 

Sitting on a bench and watching the landscapes shift in front of me, made me think of the inevitable change, the patterns in my life, and the need to accept these transformation in magnanimity and peace. 

The Breath of Life

The Earth breathes.

Mountains rise and fall.

Oceans spread out and withdraw.

Seasons change. Plants grow from seed

into flower into fruit into seed.

Why do you expect to never change? 

Why do you spend thousands to torture yourself

with plastic surgery to remain slim and youthful? 

Why not accept the flow of time and grow old with grace? 

I was a girl, a woman, a wife, a mother. 

Time to become a crone - time to withdraw

into a shell of wrinkles, collect the wisdom

from all I've seen and done. 

The body changes, yet I AM the same.

I only know more, love more, laugh more. 

The scales fall off my eyes, I see the infinite

in a grain of sand, a leaf, a stirring of breeze

in the tree branches, the swaying of golden grass

beneath live oaks. Cloaked in transient matter

I AM infinite like a perfect pebble, a perfect song

of the matter delighting in existence. 

The Earth breathes. Let me breathe with her.

The mountains rise and fall. The Earth lives on.

Time is a turbulent river. I'm a rock carried 

by its waves, polished into perfection

that I AM. 

The imaginary landscapes erupt in a conflagration, or dissolve into different shapes, colors, hues...

The "living painting" below is a fragment of a wall-size installation, here caught in a fragment resembling a classic landscape with green forest, a red-yellow hill turning colors in the fall, and turbulent sky.  The magma above erupted from a two-tone semi-landscape "living paintings" with green-brown shapes at the bottom and various hues of blue and white on the top. It shifted into an ocean first, then exploded, in slow motion... 

A fragment of the flowing magma motion of colors and shapes: https://youtu.be/bcVp-wxd59U

On the Art of Buying Art

There's no room for Amadol's Living Paintings

in my old house, with shelves full of teacups, 

angels, and crystal balls.  Gold-framed photographs

of kids and roses would not fit in with the insanity

of imaginary landscapes, bursting into flames, 

wild magma flows, crashing and erupting, 

storms of blue, azure, and sapphire rectangles

falling in an avalanche like snow.

I'd like to win a lottery and buy a mansion

in Malibu, overlooking the ocean, with huge windows,

chrome and glass, ultra-modern chairs and tables,

sparse furnishing among pristine white walls, 

waiting for the burst of color from Amadol's lava flows,

bursting in vivid hues - straight from the souks of Istanbul

full of intoxicating magic of silk scarves and jewels 

set in sparking gold admired, while steaming honey-hued tea 

flows through the air in an acrobatic display, 

not burning the hand holding a tiny cup, 

painted with phantasm flowers.

I'd live where I am so happy, in my garden of birdsong

orange blossoms and roses, but I'd visit the mansion to admire

the other nature, filtered through the artist's imagination

with assistance of the machine. Not AI, not intelligent, 

the soul-less machine was an efficient tool in the hands

of its owner, a magnificent, imaginative creator, 

evoking the genesis of planets, the evolution 

of electromagnetic cosmos  on the broad expanse 

of his electronic canvas.   

Fragment of Julius Eastman's Buddha at the gallery: https://youtu.be/5FbeK60L56A

My first visit to the gallery and surprise exposure to Rafik Amadol's Living Paintings took place during a special concert by Monday Evening Concerts, pairing the shifting and evolving landscapes, magmas and waves of the Living Paintings with processual music of American minimalists, like Alvin Lucier and Steve Reich.  Americans seem to avoid minimalism of spiritual content these days, such as works by Aarvo Part, Henryk Mikolaj Gorecki or John Tavener. Instead, the music played at the concert was surface only, pattern only, without a deeper meaning. 

Some of Reich's pieces were fantastic, others unbearable (who can stand the shrieking noise of several glockenspiel played in their highest register, quite loudly?). For that part of the concert I escaped to the second room, to watch the evolving masses of color magma created by Amadol with the tool of a machine from patterns of humidity, temperature and wind speed in California. Fascinating. 

These shifting images welcomed me during the first work on the program, played by a lone percussionist, outlined against the intense hues of waves of tiny spheres in constant motion forming these huge patterns, like particles of air form winds and clouds. Sparse strikes of the Turkish gong resonated, along with more subdued tones of the marimba. The slowness of music slowed down the perception of time so the visual patterns could be appreciated more intensely.