The Fourth of July - Commemorations of Freedom, Life, Death...

It is a year already since my Mom died on the Fourth of July, 2013. I was riding in the Village Poets Car in the Fourth of July Parade in Sunland.  Her manifold illnesses have finally caught up with her.

The Color Guard

Above the hills' crooked spine, clouds dissolve
into the azure. A red rose lazily unfolds.

It blossoms by the birch tree, petals
glowing with the innocence of lost summers.

White bark hides among green leaves,
pale oleander spills over the picket fence,

shines against the deepest blue of the iris.
Its yellow heart matches the sun's golden glow

bouncing off the brilliant sphere of stamens
wrapped in the bridal silk of matilla poppies.

My garden presents the colors at noon
dressed in the red, white and blue of the flag.

At night, the fireworks tear the indigo fabric
into light ribbons and multicolored sparks.

The visual cacophony echoes the loudness
of sound explosions imagined by the genius

life insurance salesman, Charles Ives.
The orderly march of brass anthems

scatters into the joyous chaos of laughter -
a child's delight - the Fourth of July.

 (c) 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk

The fireworks of the Fourth have ended. My Mom is gone, buried with my father in Warsaw's Orthodox Cemetery, among beautiful ferns, tall chesnut, maple and linden trees, their canopies filled with birdsong. It is a luxurious, peaceful place; both elegant and melancholy. You think of death there with gratitude for the full, rich lives well lived. I visited it again this week, upon arriving in my home town for the Fifth World Congress of Polish Studies held at my alma mater, the University of Warsaw.

I still have two phone messages from her, recorded in early June, a month before her death. When the recorded voice tells me they are old, I save them again. She called me to wish me a Happy Children's Day (June 1). Her voice was feeble, coarse. She sounded frail. She did not have much energy left. I have walked this earth for more than half a century and I was still just a child to her, a lovely, beloved child. A spoiled brat who wasted many gifts. A grateful daughter.

I celebrated the memories of my parents in a strange way soon after that: by writing down their most painful war memories of deprivation, hunger and a multitude of horrors. I made them into a book of poetry, "Slicing the Bread" - with a subtitle "Children's Survival Manual in 24 Poems."  It is a tough, rough book, without my usual sentimentality, sensuousness, and warmth, without the delicate spiritual inspirations that have been a hallmark of my poetic style.

This book of 25 poems, had already found a publisher, but I'm wondering what to do about its cover.  Should it be a medal on the bread?  It is about hunger and slicing, saving bread, after all. Should it be my mom's engagement ring on a slice of bread?

The publishers also asked for pictures of me. Should I have a new portrait made in Warsaw, with my beloved city in the background - a slice of an Old Town, or a wall still covered with bullet holes, perhaps? Or the greening of the linden trees? Filled with honey bees? They buzzed, alive with the promise of sweetness, all summer long in the village of my grandparents.

I have not written any "regular" mother-daughter poems; I could not write yet about her death and suffering, not about hospitals, not about the bullet that pierced her lung, an inch away from her heart, not about the blood pooling on the cement floor of the basement after she was shot and slipped in and out of coma. I should write about her sailing adventures, her travels around the world, her delicious cakes and gourmet stews, and wild parties, dancing all night, making that unique New Year's Eve's dress right up to eight o'clock, in time for the party... She loved picking mushrooms - a harvest of "prawdziwek" in a oak and birch forest...

Hmm, mushroom picking, I picked up that passion from her. She also spent her free time taking thousands of photographs, developing them in the darkness of the bathroom with a checkered blanket covering the window, a purple light bulb casting an eerie light on our faces, images slowly emerging on the paper soaking in chemical baths...Now, I'm a photographer, with a digital camera and colorful online albums.

No, I am not ready for a true memorial poem yet. Here's one poem about a gift from her, then, a tribute of sorts to her personal taste and flamboyant style...

My Scarf  (An Assigned Object)

Wine-red and grey, embroidered, sparkly –
I’m safe embraced by its warm hug –
I'm elegant adorned with its rich patterns –
I'm dressed in a new persona.

My scarf came from a high-fashion world
Of folksy make-believe
That trickled down to discount stores
–  Made in India –

It brought back my Grandma’s shadow
With her wool chustka of a Polish peasant,
It came out of my Mama’s suitcase
Gifts of handmade comfort
And exotic splendor

It carried a distant reflection
Of a silk white shawl
That covered my shoulders with light
At the end of my baptism

It was a foreboding of the shroud
That will wrap me to burn when I die.

© 2007 by Maja Trochimczyk

After the funeral, I brought her favorite off-yellow patterned silk scarf with me to L.A., I wore it with a black dress, wrapped myself in the scent of her perfume. In vain. There were deep gaps in the scarf already, shredding in the corners, torn. It was beyond hope last year. Now, the fading silk is just a limp reminder of a former subtle, supple beauty, slowly disintegrating in my closet. I cannot throw it out. No. Not yet.

Happy Mother's Day, Everyone!

Yes, you can find love in the streets of Los Angeles. I did - here it is! In time for the controversial exhibition at MOCA, making graffiti into art. I must say I will not attend this exhibition, yet another at MOCA I found a reason to miss. To put it simply: I do not like graffiti Tagging, to me, is what it is: the equivalent of dogs urinating to mark their territory, stinking ugly. Still... that heart on the utility box was painted over in a boring grey shade and I really missed it while driving to work. The heart reappeared recently, but without any text, nor tags, just in red.

Making "art in the streets" inspired painter Susan Dobay to create a beautiful collage from a photograph she took in Budapest. A young violinist, in a drab navy sweater and skirt, plays music in the street, while her baby looks on from his baby carriage. The open violin case waits for donations, which are not coming in the drizzle. I found something magical in this moment, looking at the scene transformed by Susan's art. I wrote a poem, one of a series inspired by her art. It was published in our community paper last May. Another poem on a painting by Susan Dobay, the Awakenings appeared here not long ago. I have to re-post the melancholy Shelled Sunset. Here's a tribute to Susan Dobay's "Violinist in the Street."


Mama’s Music

(After a collage by Susan Dobay)

The milk bottle is in the bag
but little Leo is smiling.
He likes watching the street.
He likes the music Mama makes
with those strange things she holds.
He gurgles happily at the sound
of the coins dropped into the box.

He stretches his arms to catch a sun ray
shining on them from an overcast sky
above the cobblestones and a magic tree
that grew from the sweet melodies
flowering with star dust. Maybe it will drop
bright blossoms on her dark skirt,
make her pretty like the ladies that listen?
They will go home when it starts to rain.
She is happy just to have the music
flowing from under her bow –
andante, tranquillo, legato.

________________________________________________

Another artistic friendship and a shared artwork connect me to another Susan, a wonderful poet and all-together-inspirational-and-inspired person made of light, Susan Rogers. We wrote poems based on the same painting. Mine was called "Always" and found the sweetness of old country music in that sugary landscape. Susan thought about her Mom. She posted her poem on this blog once already, as a comment to my poem about Patsy Cline and her landscape of love. Here it is again, in celebration of Mother's Day.

With You Always

~ for Jane

(by Susan Rogers)

It was supposed to be
just this way-
a watercolor world
lit by the clear, clear light
that happens only after rain.
You are lit here too
and so am I.
You who gave me
all the words I know
to describe the world
have become that world—
the colors bursting into
names: “Look, the sky
is peacock blue,
the grass is apple green.
See the peaches
in the clouds, persimmon
in the nearby hill, olive
where the branches lean.”
I couldn’t yet walk,
but you wheeled me
everywhere.
The stroller was my chariot
and you— my charioteer
pointing out the poetry
in every object,
every phrase
until my world filled
with the sound of your voice
and my eyes knew,
my ear knew, my mind knew
the wonder that lives inside
all spoken words.
When I was almost grown
you told me the story
of how you described the universe
giving me my gift of words.
I laughed, but never properly replied.
I wanted to bring you colors

of rain washed air,
to walk beside you when you
couldn’t see the lavender
anymore in mountains,
or the mustard in fields
where dandelions bloom—
and describe for you how beautiful
the colors are in the after light of rain,
how everything seems deeper—
even the water soaked grain
on the bark of trees.
In the picture that I paint
we are walking up a path
in the late afternoon—
we are bathed in the clear gold light
that fills a sky with promise.
I am pointing out a tree
with avocado leaves
streaked with teal.
It has just rained.


In gratitude for my mother
who gave me the gift of words
and for Kotofumi Tsukuri who created them.

_____________________________________________

Photo of grafitti in Lake View Terrace (c) 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk.
Poem by Susan Rogers used by permission.
"Violinist on the Street" by Susan Dobay used by permission.
"With You Always" by Minoru Ikeda - from the collection of Maja Trochimczyk.