Black History Month at Phoenix House with Beverly M. Collins

Beverly M. Collins and Maja Trochimczyk at Phoenix House Venice with their books.

On Saturday, February 24, 2018, eminent poet Beverly M. Collins visited Phoenix House Venice residential treatment program for adult men to celebrate Black History Month with poetry.  An accomplished, prize-winning author of two books and hundreds of poems published in a variety of journals, Beverly read her poems and discussed their inspirations. Some of her witty and wise verse has been collected in two books Mud in Magic (Moonrise Press, 2015) and Quiet Observations (2006).

Beverly M. Collins with her 2015 book Mud in Magic

Beverly was joined in the reading by Maja Trochimczyk (poet and Senior Director of Planning at Phoenix House who organized the event) and two patients from the treatment program who read excerpts of their excellent work in progress. The audience of nearly 50 men was very attentive and interested. The afternoon ended with the listeners using one word to describe what they love the most in life: family, sports, art, sunsets, etc... At the end of a poetic afternoon, Beverly and Maja donated books of poetry to Phoenix House.

Here are some poems that were read during the afternoon.

Cuss
(a poem of 4-letter words)

Beverly M. Collins

Let's hold rust, that pour mess
onto life, away from idea good.

Purr fire! Melt soft upon hard,
like warm love gets kind pass evil.
Stay real! Mend them!
Grow hope-come feel less lost.

Make eyes more wild with song!
Hand held thru hurt felt, that
we'll miss upon this toss, will
pull cold howl from vain wind.

Can't home stay cake-walk-pure?
Will "wary-mind" name each play?
Only time will tell.

http://www.moonrisepress.com/mud-in-magic-by-beverly-m-collins.html

Chisel

Beverly M. Collins

As I wash my face one evening in the bathroom,
Ponder rises from the steam curled within the heat

I am suddenly aware that in 200 years,
my nose could disappear from all my pictures
like some of he statues of Egypt.
Even small statues were not safe.

Historians may say it was caused by
a thousand miniature chisels in the wind.
This "breaking wind" only wants the nose.

Yo-ho, little tiny wind-pirates!
The probably have caves of stolen noses
hidden somewhere in the hills.
Only bats view them.

This is the fly-paper story some historians
are stuck to. It can be found flourishing,
wherever bridges are sold.

http://www.moonrisepress.com/into-light-by-maja-trochimczyk.html

In between Beverly's poems, Maja Trochimczyk read from two of her recent poetry books, Into Light: Poems and Incantations (rev. 2017) and The Rainy Bread: Poems from Exile (2016). The first book consists of positive, mostly spiritual poems, some describing experience of nature, some lessons to be learned from it. It was created after several readings at Phoenix House and includes a poem that was written specifically for the Black History Month event in 2016. The second book gathers poems about WWII experiences about the poet's extended family in Poland - some deported to Siberia by the Soviets in 1940, some starving in a village, waiting for the harvest...

No More

Maja Trochimczyk


Slav, Sclave, Slave  —
We are all one —  under  
That thumb of powers that be  
Of powers that do not want us to be,   
To become free, creative, enlightened

Slav, Sclave, Slave  —
We are all one, united  
In the will to connect, all one  
In compassion, in awareness  
Of the ground under our feet,  
The warm soil, trees growing roots,   
Sparkling clean water  
Flowing to fill us.

Made of water and stardust,   
We are all one under the sunrays 
Reaching down to touch our skin, 
Nourish our muscles.

We claim our freedom  
To be wise —to be kind—  
To carry each other’s burdens  
To stand tall, walk forward  
Together —

(c) 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk, from Into Light (2016)

NOTE: “Sclave” means “slave” in Latin; the name used by Romans for  the “Barbarians” in the north-east of their empire that is the Slavic nations including those in modern-day Poland.

"Hands in Light" by Maja Trochimczyk, from Into Light

A Walk in the Canyon

Maja Trochimczyk


We walk on layers of
past lives. Fossilized shells 
skin, bone, membrane. 
Ripples in the sand
on the ocean floor
now frame the mountains. 
The patterns sculpted
by waves linger on
after water disappeared. 
Sand, sandstone, limestone.
Granulated, petrified by time.

falling– sinking – twisting – rising up

Like grains of sand
caught by the cosmic tide 
we rise and fall with
the shifting clouds of light
and darkness. Words 
change us into stone. 
Words melt us in the fire 
of compassion.

Like water, we flow
and disappear, droplets
of rain in the mountain stream

racing down the slopes
to the river, through the valley, 
searching for the ocean.

The beating wings of the dove 
struggle against the wind.

falling– sinking – twisting – rising up

http://www.moonrisepress.com/the-rainy-bread-by-maja-trochimczyk.html

Ciocia Tonia

Maja Trochimczyk


Only a pear tree
between fields of sugar beets and corn.

Ripe pears — that’s all left from the house, 
barn and orchard. The farm where she raised 
her sons, milked her cows, and baked her bread.

Only a pear tree. Alone memento 
standing forlorn in an August field.

They ploughed it over— the village church and bus stops, 
the neighbors’ corrals, where their horses used to neigh.
They ploughed it over — her garden of herbs 
and cosmos, its fragile lace of leaves kissed 
by sunlight, a dream of a flower — 
she used to so love its effervescent beauty 
in the past.

It is not painful now, just surprising, 
her whole life gone, and only one tree left.
No trace of her ancestral village on the maps.

It was the worst to see her neighbors 
running with news, her husband shot 
in the middle of the dusty village road.

No time for grief, she saved her tears for later.
The orders came at once, a day to pack,
a long train ride to an unfamiliar city, 
near a river she never longed to see.

They said, pack wisely — 
take the warmest 
clothes, boots, pillows. 
Bring as much food 
as you can carry. 
Where you are going, 
there is nothing, 
except for freezing breath 
and bitter cold. 

Only a pear tree 
in an empty field of stubble.

Only a pearl tree 
in her golden field of dreams. 

NOTE: Ciocia Tonia is Aunt Antonina Glinska deported from Skarbkowo near Baranowicze by Soviets to Siberia in 1940. She returned in the 1970s to see where her house once stood and found nothing but fields and one pear tree. . .

(c) 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk, from The Rainy Bread (2016)

Maja Trochimczyk with her book Into Light (2016)

A Perfect Universe

Maja Trochimczyk


We live in a perfect universe
of what is, right next 
to a galaxy of universes
of what could have been —
endlessly fascinating and desirable, 
yet unnecessary.

A myriad of possibilities opens up
with every step, every gesture.

Choosing well —this is
“the narrow path.”

(c) 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk, from Into Light (2016, rev. 2017)

Lily by Maja Trochimczyk, from Into Light

Black History Month at Phoenix House with Beverly M. Collins

Beverly M. Collins, Maja Trochimczyk and Akilah Templeton at 

Phoenix House Venice with Beverly's book Mud in Magic

On February 24, 2016, residents of Phoenix House Venice celebrated the Black History Month with poetry. The evening, hosted by Program Director Akilah Templeton, featured poetry readings by residents, dealing with issues of recovery, solidarity, personal relationships, and life advice. At the end two guest poets read their work: I was joined by Beverly M. Collins , an accomplished African-American poet of wit and wisdom, who presented selections from her recently published book Mud in Magic (Moonrise Press, 2015).  Ms. Collins donated a copy of her book to the Phoenix House growing poetry library. 

Ms. Templeton encouraged clients to write poetry during the entire month of February, or to read poetry books in search of a poem that moves them or expresses some of their personal feelings. Some residents decided to read verse by famous author like Langston Hughes or Maya Angelou. Others wrote their own verse, using a free verse format or various rhyme scheme.  

Beverly Collins read two poems selected from her book, Mud in Magic, "Next" and "Up for Air"  - both with topical advice suitable for individuals in recovery, struggling with the dead weight of their past. 

Beverly M. Collins

 It is important, said Ms. Collins, to always look forward, to give ourselves a break and not be too hard on ourselves for past mistakes. There is always hope, always time to fix things, to start anew, to say...

Next

From the tip-top of January
to the bottom of every December,
life is a continuum.
May we remember to remember.

There are no platforms on which we
halt. No arrivals at which we are landing. 
There is only continuous movement.
Blend motion into all planning.

Next is a good four letter word that dances
on the tongue and illuminates the playgrounds
of our minds. Next can call loudly or soft
and subtle when it chimes.

Within the cold of winter remember next are
the fragrant flowers of spring. Next reminds us 
there is no be-all or end-all to anything.

When riding a high tide or if a low tide 
has you feeling sadness or perplexed, 
know true muscle can be found
in how well we just say... Next!

(C) 2015 by Beverly M. Collins

Up for Air

Cuddled at midnight, with my pillow of dread,

I and apprehension lay like spoons in my bed.

My suffocating “To Do” list, too long for one person.

Its tedious tasks make my aching head worsen.

My stubborn impatience has landed me here.

I want it all now. I want it last year.

I hold anger so big over things that are small,

like my neighbor’s loud laughter while

bouncing a ball.

I can choose to narrow my focus singly on a plan,

long enough to get myself fully in hand.

Wrapped warm in my blankets, my emotions are bare

as I promise myself, to pull me up for air.

 (c) 2015 by Beverly M. Collins

After Beverly, I read a new poem written especially for this occasion and starting from a line that connected the word "Slav" (for my ethnic identity) to its Latin root "Sclave" ("slave" - the Romans used to invade the lands of Slavs to kidnap them and make them into slaves) and the English word derived from "sclave" - "Slave."

No More

Slav, Sclave, Slave  

We are all one – under  

That thumb of powers that be  

Of powers that do not want us to be,   

To become free, creative, enlightened

Slav, Sclave, Slave  

We are all one, united  

In the will to connect, all one  

In compassion, in awareness  

Of the ground under our feet,  

The warm soil with trees growing roots,   

With sparkling clean water  

Flowing to fill us.

Made of water and stardust,   

We are all one under the sun
Rays reaching down to touch  

Our skin, nourish our muscles.

No, we are not slaves  

We claim our freedom  

To be wise – To be kind  

To carry each other’s burdens  

To stand tall, walk forward,  

Together –

(C) 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk

At the end, I read the group participation poem that I wrote especially for Venice several months ago, with a new ending, trying out if it works better than the old one... After the introduction and explanation, the audience repeats every phrase read by the poet.

Repeat After Me

                     After Prayer for Fukushima Waters  by  Dr. Masaru Emoto.

                    Water, we are sorry / Water, please forgive us

                    Water, we thank you / Water, we love you

Yes, you can find it. /your way out./
It is so simple. /First you say:/

I AM SORRY / – WE ARE SO SORRY./
We are the guilty ones,/ we are all at fault!
What happens next? /The door opens./
We stop at the threshold and say:/

PLEASE FORGIVE ME, / I FORGIVE YOU./
Forgiveness erases all your guilt,/
all my fears, all our sorrows /– the burden
of dead thoughts is lifted./ See?/
We float up into brightness./ We are 
sparks of starlight, /a constellation
dancing in the sky/ as we say:/

THANK YOU,/ THANK YOU VERY MUCH./
Filled with gratitude /

for every cloud, leaf and petal, /

every breath we take,/ every heartbeat, /

/we are ready, at last,/

to say what’s the most important:/

I LOVE YOU, MY LOVE, /
I give you all the love /
of my tired, aching heart /

I LOVE YOU, MY LOVE, /
I give you all the love /
of my tranquil, grateful heart!

                                                                          © 2015 by Maja Trochimczyk

Women's Poems of Struggle and Hope in the Black History Month

On  Thursday, February 27, 2014, clients and staff at the adult residential and outpatient treatment programs  of Phoenix House Venice celebrated the Black History Month in style. They gathered with their guests to commemorate the achievements and history of African Americans with soul food, poetry jam and music. This Second Annual African-American History Celebration and Poetry Jam was coordinated by Phoenix House's Counselor La Tonya Smith, who ensured the participation of both clients and staff in an inspired and inspirational meeting of minds and hearts. 

Katerina Canyon

As the "guest poet" for the evening, I read three poems.  First, I presented my favorite work by another former Poet-Laureate of Sunland-Tujunga, Katerina Canyon, entitled "Feet" and dedicated to the poet's mother. It is one of the most popular poems by Katerina, who was the first and only African American Poet Laureate in our foothill community before moving to Atlanta, Georgia. She enriched the poetry scene in California with many readings and community projects.  

Feet

I cleaned my daughter’s feet.
I swept the warm cloth along
her soft, Earth toned skin — she grinned
and said, “Mom, that feels Heavenly.”

Yes, I remember.

Lying on the bed like a doll filled with sand
too fatigued to move — I played hard that day.
Slightly waking to feel the warm cloth on my feet.
Mother washing the day’s dirt away.

Yes, that felt Heavenly.

My friends told me their mothers would say
we should always take care
to wear clean underwear

in case we came upon disaster.

“Clean feet are most important”, my mother said.

She explained that a woman’s feet
told the story of her life.
That on her soles you could see
the roads she traveled.

She would say, “You can measure her resilience in a woman’s ankles”

I was told that if I were to get into an accident,
dressed like a bum,
and the doctors saw I had clean feet,
they would take good care of me.

“I know that may sound silly to you”, she’d say

She explained they would know that I tried
my best to take care of myself
and that my dress was more
a matter of circumstance than of desire.

When I was too tired for an evening bath, she washed my feet.
When I was sick in bed, she washed my feet.
When we were homeless, she washed my feet.
When she felt there was nothing else to do, she washed my feet.

Yes, it felt Heavenly.

I tried out for the high school track team.
I went in for a physical.
The doctor examined my feet
and said, “Nice feet,” and approved me as healthy.

He never asked me if I had on clean underwear.

I wondered how many kids
would miss out on running track
because their feet weren’t as clean as mine?

And I thought she was being silly.

She was right.

I finally saw her.
And there she was.
Too tired to move.
Dying.

I filled the bowl with warm water.
I found a soft cloth.
Picked up the soap. Ivory pure.
The only type she would use.

I looked at her feet — so long and thin.
Dark as Louisiana clay.
Her veins stuck up like river lines.
A road map to the Bayou.

I washed her feet.
Her feet carried heavy burdens.
She walked many miles for many years.

She said, “That feels Heavenly.”

I replied, “Yes, I remember.”

— Katerina Canyon

I then read two of my own poems, "Memory Mirrors" (a reflection on survival skills of oppressed people) and "The Veil, the Weave" (a spiritual call to action). Both poems involved audience participation - the listeners recited a refrain in the first poem, and were engaged in a dialogue of two groups answering back and forth in the second poem.  One of the participant later commented: "I did not know that poetry could be done like that. It was very exciting!" In the poem below, the audience recited the refrains.

Digital Integration by Susan Dobay, 2013

Memory Mirrors
            ~ after Reminiscence by Susan Dobay

by Maja Trochimczyk

The ancestors’ weight heavy on their shoulders

The ages’ wisdom embroidered on their skin

Bend down, bend down

You will not be broken

Tall stems of rice bow low before the wind

Slide through the onslaught, a sudden surge of war

Young mothers whisper silence to their daughters

Girls watch, repeat the gestures of their kin

Bend down, bend down

You will not be broken

You have to learn the art of disappearing

Invisible, you will outlive the strangest times

Be still, be patient, breathe the longest hours

You have to do it all and remain unseen

Bend down, bend down

You will not be broken

They came and took our men who were the strongest

They came and killed our boys who were so brave

Women alone remained in our village

Into the river our silver tears have flown

Bend down, bend down

You will not be broken

Bend down, bend down

You will not…

Grass by Maja Trochimczyk, (c) 2013.

The second poem, "The Veil, the Weave", is inspired by a line from Isaiah, about the great evil of lies and death that will be destroyed at the end. The poem's four color voices are to be read by different people, if there are not enough people, the regular and italic fonts indicate two different voices to be woven. in the tapestry of the poem, the lines written in capital font are to be read by everyone all at once.

The Veil, the Weave

“On this mountain, God will destroy the veil that veils all peoples,

the web that is woven over all nations: he will destroy Death forever.”               

                                                  Isaiah, Chapter 25, Verses 7-8

the veil  that veils    the weave  that is woven

                  

break them          tear them       shred them       set us free

the veil that obscures  
                     distorts true meaning  
                                                  disorients 
                                                                 and stifles

            

obfuscation     dilapidation     obliteration     abomination

the weave of sticky thread

is a trap to capture the unwary

                  the weave of shiny thread

                  is a snare to entangle the greedy

                                 the weave of sweet-scented thread

                                 is a seduction of beauty into nothing

                                                                 the weave is woven

                                                                where is the weaver?

 where is he hiding?

                  this maker of imitations

                                   the master of mimicry

                                                       the creator of absence

 the weave holds us tight

              in the habit of hours

                                    in the rut of the known

                                                   in the suffocating thickness 

of lies             
                      that are woven           
                                                       that are told!

break the veil   undo the knots   free the mind

to see the blessings of infinity

                              to hear the music

                                        of sing-song lullabies

                                                         calming us for the night

for the first gleam 

                             of stardust

                                               for awakening                                

                                                                          in grace

   when the veil     AND the weave      are gone

__________________________________________________

© 2008 by Maja Trochimczyk 

Poet Katerina Canyon

Phoenix House's Counselor, La Tonya Smith, set the tone for further presentations by reading the famous poem by Maya Angelou, "Still I Rise." With is powerful refrain, it is a hymn to the perserverence in the face of adversity:

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.  (....)

Out of the huts of history's shame  
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain 
I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear 
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear 
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise  
I rise
I rise. 

The most moving and touching segment of the celebration was created by the participants themselves. Men enrolled in residential treatment programs volunteered to prepare speeches, or essays about various historical figures, from well known like Nelson Mandela and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., to those who should be known better, like Ralph Bunche.  The story about Bunche was particularly memorable and humorous, with its refrain: "Do you know who was Ralph J. Bunche?"  For those who do not know, he was an American diplomat and negotiator of a peace accord in Palestine that won him the Nobel Peace Prize of 1950. Many listeners went  home repeating this refrain..."Do you know who was Ralph J. Bunche?"

The audience had scoring cards and evaluated the quality of each presentation, that included, in addition to speeches, also an artwork - a portrait of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The five best presenters won prized - gift cards and books, including sample issues of the Rattle Poetry Magazine coupled with a book by two local poets, Marlene Hitt and Dorothy Skiles, entitled Riddles in the Rain (donated by the authors). 

_______________________________

"Memory Mirrors" by Maja Trochimczyk, first published in Kathabela Wilson, ed., Susan Dobay's Impressions of China, Poets on Site Chapbook inspired by artwork of Susan Dobay, Pasadena, 2013.  

"The Veil, the Wave," by Maja Trochimczyk, first published in The Voice of the Village, vol. 3 no. 3, April 2012.

"Feet" by Katerina Canyon, reprinted from www.villagepoets.com/katerina.html, also published www.poetickat.com/kcanyonfeet.html‎.