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...
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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.
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.
