Bench under the cherries in Descanso Gardens, 2014.
The spring is the time of change of generations. So many people are dying. So many babies are being born. Wave after wave, humanity persist on the discovery of what's possible when dealing with matter, nature, life on this planet. So being a part of one wave of humanity, we never know when and how the end will come. Do we? We never know if the angels that watch over us are benevolent or maleficient... We, frankly, don't know anything about anything, or, to put it differently, know nothing about nothing. We just stumble in the dark, trying to make the best choice possible, catch a sunray while we can...
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) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk, published in "Heaven and Hell" issue of The Scream Online.
I recently sent a translation of this poem to be published on the Pisarze.pl porta in Poland. The set included a new, original Polish poem that the editor did not select, so I translated it into English and placed here.
A Rose Is a Rose
Petals, petals, petals,
keep falling, falling, falling,
free, sleepy, fragrant –
rosying, more rosy than the rose,
until only a stem, a dry stalk with thorns
remains in place of bright blossom.
So it is in life - day after day
hours flow away from now into
sometime distant, a long, long time ago –
when the southern sun shone
pure gold in vibrant blue,
a long, long time ago –
before enemy planes turned
the sky into a gray soup
of chemical poisons
and the earth into a fallow field
of aluminum dust in which
Monsanto grains grow alone.
A long, long time ago
a flower opened into a rose
above all roses, a flower of one day
as beautiful as my life –
unique, original, without flaw
Years passed and I collect petals,
petals of memory – In words I cover
the faded skeleton with a vivid robe
of memories of kindness, love, joy –
and the petals, petals, petals
that keep falling, falling, falling
more rosy than the rosiest of roses
(c) 2025
The two favorite paces of mine are my garden, where my roses magically boom, and open spaces with ocean waves and hills on the horizon. I take my kites for a walk on the Oxnard beach or in the mountains, and look up at the astounding, vibrant sapphire sky....
Liquid Opal
I took two butterflies for a walk –
two colorful kites soaring above me
while the ocean waves licked my toes and tried to
tip me over so I’d roll down the soft, sandy slope into
the seaweed meadows and kelp forests beneath. I would be happy
in the eerie underwater light of aqua and aquamarine,
the ocean whisper assured me.
Yet, I resisted, sinking deeper
into the wet sand, holding onto my kites
that floated overhead and pulled me up into the sky,
the pristine, vibrant expanse of the azure. Endless peace.
No sorrows and no secrets.
I look at the filigree patterns
of seafoam lace, shifting playful shapes.
Endless invention. The slowly setting sun colors
the ocean surface with metallic hues of titanium, nickel, chrome
and liquid opal, changing with every wave, every wisp of the breeze.
As evening falls, the waves rise higher,
intersecting, crashing into each other, revealing
their underbellies of pure, translucent jade, before
disappearing into the opaque beige of the sand, mixed with
I am very happy to have completed the bulk of the work on the anthology of poetry by my writing group, Westside Women Writers. Entitled Grateful Conversations: A Poetry Anthology, after a prompt by the founder of our group Millicent Borges Accardi, this 280 page volume was co-edited by Kathi Stafford and published on May 30, 2018.
Grateful Conversations is a portrait of a group of female poets from California, who come together each month to hone their craft and share their verse. Known as Westside Women Writers and active as a group since 2008, they include Millicent Borges Accardi, Madeleine S. Butcher, Georgia Jones Davis, Lois P. Jones, Susan Rogers, Kathi Stafford, Sonya Sabanac, Ambika Talwar and myself.
In the words of the WWW founder, Millicent Borges Accardi, this is “a community of women writers working together to support each other with strong attention to craft, to grow as writers and as people in community.” The volume includes poems written for seven workshops and self-portraits in poetry of the nine writers.
WWW at the Norton Simon Museum.August 2013.
L to R: Maja, Susan, Lois, Georgia, Sonya, Madeleine and Millicent.
To read the preface and find out which poems are included in which workshop sections, please visit the Moonrise Press Blog. My poems are found in most of the workshop sections: 1) Millicent's prompt, "The Lake of Claret," 2) A harpist at the Getty Villa - "Song of Stillness," 3) Van Gogh at Norton Simon Museum - "Into Color, Into Light," and "The Mulberry Song" 4) Grandparents - "How to Make a Mazurka," from Chopin with Cherries, and "Ciocia Tonia" from The Rainy Bread; 6. The Broad Museum - "The Infinity Room" and 7. Rivers - "Easter Apocalypsis."
The Lake of Claret Maja Trochimczyk The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg in the air Hot sangria in my glass, white light shines Through the rich hue of claret, opalescent Like my silk scarf at a California party I savor the taste of long ago – that evening On the lake by the bonfire heating a huge metal pot With cheap wine from bottles marked “Wino” In a fake handwriting – no provenance, no appellation controlée We put plums, apples and piernik spices Into our grzane wino during that fateful sailing trip Spending nights under dark fir branches Picking mushrooms and blueberries In the underbrush They thrive in acidic soil fed by rotting needles Where a pungent smell of decay and fruit lingers Beneath prickly juniper swathed in cobwebs Drops of moisture gather on pine bark Striped by shadows A handful of wild strawberries glisten Among delicate blades of grass in forest clearings We lose our way, lured on by their promise Of sweetness, their carmine hue, light aroma Brightened by sunshine We did not talk much then, my last year Of wandering through Mazurian Lakes Stopping at island coves, setting camp, moving on After a morning dive to the sandy bottom, Scattering the fish It was best to listen to the wind in the treetops Pine branches whispering to each other About the end of summer, snow that will break them, Icicles that may kill –grateful conversations never had
But now taking place
In my own Self-Portrait section, I put two poems about writing and our group, two about immigration and nostalgia for lost country, two about romantic love, and two about spiritual lessons in life. Some of my poems have been previously published and only one brand new: "Definition: Writing;" "In Millicent’s World;" "An Ode of the Lost;" "On Eating a Donut at the Kraków Airport;" "Shambhala; "“Look at me…”; "On Divine Comedy and Ice Cream;" "Repeat after Me;" and "In Morning Light." I also selected a variety of illustrations from my thousands of nature photos, it took a while to pick them and then I had to change the selected images, because they did not work in black and white of the original paperback book. There will be color versions soon, so that's not a complete loss.
In an essay about my personal approach to poetry, I wrote: Personally, I never considered poetry a “career.” I‘m already a musicologist (Ph.D.) and a grant writer; I do not need to make poetry into a job! Thus, I have avoided competitions and conferences, and initially wrote only for myself. Meanwhile, I discovered that having a roomful of people wait with bated breath for my next word was and is completely addictive. And the shortest way to finding myself in front of such an awe-struck audience is to workshop my poems with really talented poets. In the following selections from 20 years of poetry-writing, I included self-portraits as an émigré, daughter, and lover, and a poem I wrote for Millicent, grateful for her charming and eccentric home with a rustic patio - daffodils in the spring, red-white-and-blue lanterns in the summer, and gold leaves in the autumn. I close my self-portrait with a “responsorial” poem from my Into Light book of spiritually inspired verse and incantations. Over the years, I wrote a lot of dirges and plaints; in this book, I gathered my positive, inspirational poems. It is time to think of what I’ll leave behind and those types of poems are my little treasures to be shared with children and friends.
For me, poetry writing truly is about “Grateful Conversations” – with myself, with my friends, with the world… I am deeply thankful for the ten years and many hours of conversing with Westside Women Writers!
The Infinity Room
At the Broad Museum, is closed, they say.
I do not trust them, anyway. I would not go in.
I find my own Infinity on the beach –
floating on the waves that cross the Pacific
to lick my toes covered with sand crystals.
It is scattered among multicolored pebbles
in shallow tide pools I walk through to reach you.
I’m home now.
My infinity stirs in dewdrops on the grass –
diamond sparks on moss green, chartreuse and celadon,
shining in early spring light.
It tastes refreshing in cold juice of an orange
picked in my garden when it is 33 outside. It echoes
in the melodious phrases of the mockingbird
that claims the top of my pine, its contours
outlined against the misty hilltops
and the bluest of California skies.
Where is yours? Where have you found
that spark, that voice, that calling?
Is it in the sunrays bouncing off the mirror surface of the lake,
splitting into a myriad prisms between your fingers -
your private rainbow? Or the hot desert wind
that challenges you to a race across sand dunes?
Maybe you walk into the white expanse of the museum
filled with a bunch of Jeff Koontz’s metallic balloons
and see yourself reflected in the smooth, polished skins,
bright and translucent like air bubbles, a giant child’s delight?
I hold a bouquet of infinity in my hand.
It opens to blossom in ellipses, circles, petals –
intersecting trajectories of light, reverberations
of energy reflecting a multitude of timelines –
crystal after crystal – wave after wave –
carnelian into amber into gold – emerald into sapphire
into quartz crystals – sparkling above a multitude
of mirrored cupolas – other infinities that pass me by.
In Morning Light We live on a planet where it rains diamonds — hard rain, sparkling crystal droplets — in the clouds, in the air, on the ground under our feet. Here, the Valentine’s Day falls on Ash Wednesday. Red strawberries, wine-hot passion and Ashes to ashes, dust to dust — lessons of impermanence of the body, constantly reconfigured in a vortex of quarks and atoms until the pattern dissolves like snow at the end of winter. Delicate snowdrops peek from under the melting cover of phantasmagorical shapes and figures. Here, the Annunciation Day of Mary’s greatest joy falls on Palm Sunday — from rainbow wings of Fra Angelico’s Gabriel bowing before the shy, blushing maiden in royal blue we look ahead to the green of palm fronds lining the streets of Jerusalem. We welcome the destiny of the King. We see red blood on the stones of Golgotha, the Place of the Skull. Not even this is real. No wonder, then, that Easter, the greatest Mystery — of Death into Life, Spirit over Matter, the Divine in an emptied human shell — Eli, Eli, Lema Sabachtani — Sanctus, Benedictus, Agnus Dei — it is done — yes, that Easter — is on April’s Fools Day this year. We fool ourselves when we see death as enemy. We spin our lives into thin filaments of a spider-web. Illusion woven into illusion. Deception after deception. They rise and fall with the rhythm of seductive charm. The smiling demon is the most persistent. Incorrigible, it pulls us down, down, down into the mud, from whence we did not come. Nothingness ties us up with bonds of non-belonging. My revelation is this — we live on the planet where it rains diamonds. We walk on untold treasures that we do not notice — we forget and forget and forget where we came from, where we are, where we are going. We spin our future out of spider silk and shadows. Our lives fill with the sand of dreams, changing like shards of glass, broken bits of colored plastic in a kaleidoscope — transfigured into the most astounding waltz of the rosettes, reflected in hexagonal mirrors of transcendence — My revelation is this — we are the children of Sunlight — blessed by Radiance — wearing Love’s golden halos — we shine and blossom — in Light’s cosmic garden of stars — lilies — violets — peonies — daffodils —and roses — always roses — in this brilliant garden — on a diamond planet — of what is — in the Heart of the Great, Great Silence — — there’s no here — nor there — — no before — nor after — — no inside — nor outside — ——— All is Always Now——— ——— All is Always One———
Spring Garden Party with J. Michael Walker, Lois P. Jones, Rebecca Richardson,
Christopher Vened and Maja Trochimczyk, Photo by Kathabela Wilson, March 27, 2016.
Easter has come and gone, and we can read poems and browse through photos. What fun! We celebrated the joys of spring in my garden, at a Sunday Luncheon Garden Party" filled "with wonderful flavors of Polish and international cuisine, in a company of artists, poets, and creative free spirits." We listened to a CD of the Prusinowski Trio's ancient and edgy mazurkas while eating the chocolate walnut mazurka, and the mazurka wannabe, my apple cake (szarlotka) decorated with willow branches for a change...
Easter table with lilies, mazurkas and pisanki, 2016.
Now, there are two traditional Polish Easter cakes. The first one is the babka - a yeast cake, baked with raisins and candied orange peel, so tall and delicate, you cannot make noise or run around in the house when they are cooling off, with babkas in danger of a collapse into a culinary disaster (this extra tall and fragile muslin babka was the specialty of my grandmother, "Babka" or rather "Babcia" Maria - I never mastered it, so I do not even try making them). The second, the one I know how to make, in several variants, is the mazurka, the cake named like the folk dance. Is it the dance that mimic the cake? Is it the cake that mimic the dance? Is it the dancing cake? You decide. "Mazurka" comes from the root for "Mazur"- inhabitant of the central part of Poland, Mazowsze.
my orange sun mazurka
and willow branch mazurka-wannabe
will dance in your mouth
Thanks to the culinary and artistic talents of painter Debby Beck, we also had a unique cake, which I will call the "Rainbow Mazurka" - "rainbow" because of its colors and "mazurka" because she designed and baked it specifically for my party....
Debby Beck and David Long with Debby's Rainbow Mazurka.
inside and outside
all colorsof the rainbow
and delicious, too!
I had asked my guests to bring their poetry, art, or something special to show-n-tell: "What Joy? what Beauty? What Meaning? Of your Life." To make sure there is not too much food left-over, I asked for something to plant and something to drink, instead. I got beautiful lilies, tulips, a fragrant pelargonia, basil, squash, and a friendship plant. Here is a basket from Kathabela Wilson
a friendship basket -
planting flowers and poems
that's what spring's about
Kathabela and Rick Wilson, selfie.
We drank red wine sangria with frozen mango, berries, and pomegranate juice, and mimosas of freshly squeezed orange juice with proseco, courtesy of Rebecca Richardson and Christopher Vened. The mimosas reminded me of my children: only Ian was at home this Easter, but I had my first mimosas with Marcin and Ania at Easter five years ago... It is because they moved away, that my home is now filled with poets, artists, musicians and friends, my new artistic family!
mimosa delight -
joy bubbles up in sunlight,
on Easter with kids
With Ian, Easter 2016.
With friends and their mimosas at Easter 2016. Photo by Kathabela Wilson.
With renowned tapestry artist Monique Chmielewski Lehman and JPL Manager, David Lehman, selfie.
With Elizabeth Kanski, President of Polish American Film Society and Lucyna Przasnyski,
artist and photographer.
It was Easter Sunday, but not everyone is Christian and my guests came from different traditions, to share the celebration of the arrival of Spring, the Equinox, the time of Rebirth, Love and Friendship. Several poets shared farewells to their mothers, a topic dear to me since my parents were shot by robbers in their summer home on April 4, 2000, very close to Easter, and I always think about their ordeal and bravery during this holiday, of Death and Resurrection (my father died on May 11, 2001, my mother lingered to 4 July 2013).
I have not written much about it - it was too painful, but I remember their stories, how bright, cold and distant the moon was, when my father went to find help, after the robbers left, and he walked with a bullet wound across his stomach, to return back to the house in three hours, crawling after midnight, since nobody offered help, all doors were locked and all windows closed. And the phones were not working that early spring night in Poland. Yet, they lived, they refused to be victims, they reclaimed their dignity and love for each other amidst this horror. It would be wrong to define my parents' lives by this tragic turning point, and yet it has to be written. Evil has many faces, this one wore a black skiing mask, black overalls and gloves, and spoke with a lilting accent of a local peasant boy, not even twenty...
Mari Werner (L) listens to Toti O'Brien read, with me, Judy Barrat,
Debby Beck, Kathabela Wilson and Rick Wilson. Photo by Lucyna Przasnyski.
While I did not read my Easter poem, Mari Werner was brave enough to start the poetic rounds. She brought her moon poem, the first one she ever read at the Village Poets gathering back in 2010. It was previously published on the Village Poets blog, announcing Mari's featured reading in 2011.
The Moon
A crescent moon floats above the horizon.
“You can totally see the rest of it,”
she says, as though the moon is cheating.
And the moon is cheating.
A crescent moon should be
what a crescent moon looks like
in a bedtime story illustration,
a crescent clear and simple,
no dark sphere to detract
from its perfection.
Under the smile of the crescent moon,
she sleeps in fluffy comforters,
winked upon by stars
cuddled by a curled up cat,
guarded by a sleeping dog.
That’s the bedtime story version,
but here on the surface of the planet…
you can totally see the rest of it.
(C) 2010 by Mari Werner
Mary Torregrossa reads her poem to be published elsewhere.
Among various gifts, Mary brought a basket of eggs she colored using multi-hued dyes and masking tape to create artistic patterns and stripes.
Eggs by Mary Torregrossa. Photo by Kathabela Wilson.
I colored the eggs by boiling them in onion skins, the rich dark reddish hue is an Easter tradition. We then used needles to scratch patterns on the eggs, but I did not have time this year to do it (my daughter continued the tradition in Berkeley, see below). Instead, I added to my bowl of red eggs the colorful wooden ones, painted in Poland in a variety of patterns. The brightest newest ones (top left) came as a gift from Lucyna Przasnyski, made in her native beloved Krakow. The ones I already had were made in Krakow and Warsaw, but years earlier - even in folk art patterns and fashions change, while the tradition stays alive!
Polish-style Easter eggs - real (red) and decorative (painted).
Judy Barrat reads
Judy Barrat recited her Winter Woods from memory; since I cannot remember my poems and have to read them each time, I am in awe of this accomplishment, and the lovely rhyming narrative poem, so different from what I write.
Winter Woods
I ran one day through winter woods.
Dry leaves covered the ground,
crackling beneath my running shoes;
I heard no other sound.
Shards of sunlight pierced the trees --
golden arrows from Cupid’s bow,
And on a verdant hill ahead
the trees appeared to glow.
On that far hill awash with light a
silhouette took shape
of a man in perfect archer’s stance;
I watched, my mouth agape.
I reached the hill, climbed to the top,
so curious was I.
And there he stood, a half-clad man,
a banquet to my eye.
A light around his presence glowed,
though mortal he appeared to be.
His movements caused the wind to sing;
and I trembled when he looked at me.
Now I’d know Cupid anywhere
but no winged cherub did I see;
And this perfect sculpted god-like man
most certainly wasn’t he.
So stunned was I, no words came forth
my mouth felt filled with sand.
Struck dumb, I lowered my eyes to find
a sunbeam in my hand.
He plucked the sunbeam from my hand,
and with no malice I could see,
He threaded it in a twisted bow, then
aimed it straight at me.
With eyes tight closed I stood tall and
proud like St. Joan at the stake.
I told myself “If this is a dream, now is
the time to wake”.
And wake I did to chilling wind, leaves
swirling all around;
No man, no cupid, no golden glow
only me upon the ground.
Darkness had begun to fall;
where the time went I don’t know.
I looked around, and against a tree
I saw – the twisted bow.
Cautiously I picked it up and held it
close to me;
The chill wind stopped, the air grew still
and warmth washed over me
Some months have passed since that
day and I notice more and more
Real beauty in the simplest things I
hadn’t seen before.
I believe in this frenetic world there'S
still more love than hate
And hope it’s true that good things come
to those of us who wait.
This tale won’t be believed by some
though every word is so,
For in my dreams there is no end to the
places I can go.
So I run each day in the winter woods
looking for that man,
And chasing sunbeams with a child’s
hope to hold one in my hand.
(c) by Judy Barrat
Ed Rosenthal reads, framed by his sister Ann Podracky and David Long.
Ed Rosenthal, of the "Poet-Broker" fame, brought a new poem about a boulder and his fascination with rocks during his six and a half day ordeal of being lost in the desert. His poetry book about his experiences, The Desert Hat was published by Moonrise Press; his memoirs are still pending. The book's title comes from the canvas hat that Ed had with him; he wrote messages to his wife and daughter on all sides of the hat, thinking he would never see them again...
Love on the Rocks
by Ed Rosenthal
I knew a boulder like you when I was lost and tired
as pitiless Sun and stars changed places in the sky
Like you he had a scratched face and beige crown
And wore a large patch of amber near the ground
I’m not ashamed to pet you in tribute to my pal
Who like you endured a billion years below ground
Cataclysmic magma emotions and tectonic grinds
before hitching to the surface in a boiling lava ride.
It wasn’t his past pain that made us rock solid buds
It was his clock on eternal time- he’d seen oceans fall
One week without water watching the racing skies
Like a galaxy rotation meant nothing to rock at all.
Now I see you resting on the roadside of this park
The safe marked trails where families take a lark
Let them stare as I pet you for bringing me back
To Mr. Boulder who ticked the cosmos in my heart.
(c) by Ed Rosenthal, 2016
The selection of a "boulder" poem was quite appropriate for the conversation, including the story about the Oldest Rock of Sunland-Tujunga told by its "discoverer" David Long. (Incidentally, the Oldest Rock rides in our Fourth of July Parades and has its own page on Facebook, with over 440 likes).
Jean Sudbury recites her poem
J. Michael Walker reads
Kathabela Wilson reads, Rick accompanies her on a Slavic flute.
Kathabela Wilson read another poem from her series about her mother who died last year. The poems will eventually form a poetic biography of an exceptional woman with an exeptionally rich and long life, written in haiku and tanka. Rick Wilson accompanied Kathabela on one of the new flutes from his ethnic flute collection, a Slavic instrument, curved like a bough of a tree from which it was made.
Ends and Beginnings
I made her the old
dishes she used to make
for Thanksgiving
she brought nothing to her lips
but my hand she kissed it
she curls on the bed
like a restless fetus
my mother
from a bedside chair
I cradle her with my legs
after her long life
such a quick demise
was it a hoax
in the warm room
I see her breathing
my mother
goes her own way
meteors
in the eye
of the fox
(C) 2016 by Kathabela Wilson
Published in Ribbons, Spring, 2016
Lois P. Jones, of an individual, erudite and intensely sensual/spiritual voice, read a poem about her peach tree.
I Want to Know When
my peach tree will bloom so I can lose
my mind in its fragrance. Will they be white
or pink, Redhaven or Harmony? And if it’s true
all babies learn their mother’s scent, will its flowers
hold the perfume of its fruit? I want to know how
the yield will come, what I’ll feel as the globes grow
and ripen beyond my door. How the fruit
will enter my dreams and I’ll awaken,
shaken with longing. I want to bite
into its golden flesh to the red tinge that nests
the stone and see it burst like an ode –
to name its glistening taste, hook my hands
on my hips and drawl hey mister, we’ve got the best peaches
west of Georgia. I want to feel the weight, its navel soft
as a baby’s belly. To know how something so small
could yield so much and with all
my flowering, I did not bear fruit. And I will lie
down near its roots, stretched out among tansy
and marigolds, dusk-winged as a night pollinator
and dizzy above this rolling earth.
(C) by Lois P. Jones
Previously published in Tiferet.
Performance by Rick Wilson and Jean Sudbury, "Szla dzieweczka..." Photo by Kathabela Wilson
There was music, lots of it. In addition to listening to the Mazurkas CD by the Prusinowski Trio, a fantastic admixture of the antique and unadorned folk melodies (as gathered and recorded by scholars since the 1920) with modern traditions, from the Balkans to jazz... Here you can listen to some of my Prusinowski favorites: Serce (The Heart), Mazurek od Ciarkowskiego, and the Meadow Mazurka. In 2013, I wrote about them on my Chopin with Cherries Blog.
Jean Sudbury and Rick Wilson serenaded the guests with several selections, including a rendition of that old Polish chesnut, "Szla dzieweczka do laseczka..." (A girl was walking to the forest...), taught to all schoolchildren and sung by all amply partaking of libations at parties. Here it is in a version by the State Polish Folk Song and Dance Ensemble, Slask.
Then, let by J. Michael Walker, my guests spontaneously burst in song, upon my arrival in my white hat, eerily reminiscent of Judy Garland's in the Easter Parade: In your Easter Bonnet. It was so amusing to hear so many people knowing all the words to this delightfully sweet ditty, sung by Garland with Fred Astaire in the film, and Frank Sinatra and many others, later.
Photo by Lucyna Przasnyski
I read the last poem of the cycle. Instead of a tribute to my parents (that would have been quite fitting as they were shot by robbers on April 4, 2000, and taught me more about love, sacrifice and bravery that I could learn), I shared a new version of the staple of this spring, that I read everywhere I go. "Repeat After Me" is inspired by a prayer to Fukushima Waters by Dr. Masaru Emoto, apologizing to the great ocean and all the living creatures for the damage we have done... His prayer is simple, in four parts:
Water, we are sorry
Water, please forgive us
Water, we thank you
Water, we love you
I was amazed to realize that this four-part spiritual journey - from remorse and apology through forgiveness to love - is based on the same framework that underpins the structure of the Mass, the most Catholic of all rituals, moving from apology (Act of Contrition, "Mea culpa"), through asking for forgiveness (Kyrie Eleison - Christe Eleison - Kyrie Eleison), to gratitude, the essence of the Eucharist, and to love embodied in Communion... The latter one might be a stretch for non-Christians, since Communion seems to be a very strange cannibalistic ritual a symbol of eating the body and blood of another human person. I always wondered about that, finding blood-drinking very unappealing and cannibalism itself, well, unpalatable. So I decided that the Body and Blood are of the Divine Essence of the Creator of the Universe - and as we lovingly eat a piece of bread and sip the wine the Divine Power enters us filling us with starlight, the bright energy of billions of suns and galaxies in-between...
With Toti O'Brien and Debby Beck.Photo by Lucyna Przasnyski
But, I digress...in my poem, I used the framework of "sorry - forgive - thank - love," and was very pleased with the amusingly uplifting results. What troubled me in the previous readings, was the poem's ending:
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.
Not that this ending was false or inappropriate. It is through giving love away that we heal our aching hearts, so that's easy to say, for me, at least. In previous readings, however, some jaded, cynical, extra intelligent and erudite poets cringed when hearing this most insipid word, "love" repeated so many times in the row. I changed it, then, to give it some wings, and also make people laugh. Laughter is good, uplifting. The "repeat after me" pattern of the responsorial poem works because the lines are separated in short segments, easy to say. The new ending, though, is different, and catches everyone unawares. May we all repeat it daily!
With Toti O'Brien and Debby Beck. Photo by Lucyna Przasnyski
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 WORLD, / I LOVE YOU, MY SUNLIGHT /
I give you all the love /
of my tired, grateful heart!
Good, let's say it again./
I LOVE YOU, MY LOVE /
I LOVE YOU, MY SPLENDID, STUPENDOUS, EXQUISITE, DELIGHTFUL AND MAGNIFICENT LIFE!
As powerful and uplifting as it was, my poem was not the end of the festivities. Toti O'Brian read a short story about nesting habits of the mourning doves. As she showed us, these birds are not sad at all, but happy and worry-free, inspirational in their endless optimism... The story fit in the garden very well, as it is filled with mourning doves, as well as mockingbirds and humming birds, all trying to establish precise borders for their territories...
Finally, Christopher Vened treated us to an excerpt from his solo show, entitled Human Condition, performed among the roses, and sometimes even, as a rose, when seen through the lens of Kathabela's camera.
"The world is my oyster"
he says, with out-stretched arms -
Through her camera lens
she sees the soft rose petals
welcoming the sun
Photos of Christopher Vened by Kathabela Wilson
Photo by Lucyna Przasnyski
The late-comers included Susan Rogers and Ambika Talwar. So with Ambika, Lois, Susan, and me, we had the Spiritual Quartet, or the Four Birds present for an annual photo-op:
Peacock, Phoenix, Humming Bird, and the humble Dove of Love.
The reading was over, but I asked invited poets to send something for the blog. Susan's poem is about flowers:
Saving Flowers
by Susan Rogers
Once a month I arrange flowers at the regional headquarters of Sukyo Mahikari. Last Sunday, I did my best to use flowers that were asking to be displayed: three wide-faced sunflowers, elegant birds of paradise, orange petals fanned—and several stalks of irises, purple-tipped with color so deep I wanted to drink their ink like wine. No room for the beautiful lily so I cut its stem and placed it where it could be used another day. Then I took care to gather all the fallen blooms, the “filler” stems and shortest flowers that could not be placed in a giant vase and took them home with me On my way out I chanced to look at the shelf for shoes. There lying across a shelf so low I needed to kneel to reach them were forgotten flowers—violet gladiolas and long stemmed daisies, almost gone. Perhaps someone left them there thinking to take them home. I felt their waste in my heart. Not wanting to accept their loss, I lifted each gently as I would a hurt bird and brought them to the entryway. Using a scissor I cut them, surgically, trying to give each a chance to survive. Then I placed them one by one, in a vase to greet visitors by the door.
tree planting
the troubled teen volunteers
I talk to her about college
And then, there those who did not make it through the Southern California freeways. Margaret Ute Saine's habit of writing haiku as a daily journal, has flowered into this series:
