Do charcoal hills scorched by wildfire make you think of the end of the world? Of return and rebirth, dust to dust, light into light? The sun is surreal, reduced by smoke to one, red eye... I lived through two wild wildfires in my Sunland neighborhood, the Station Fire of 2009 that burned down most of Los Angeles National Forest and surrounded us in our little city on all sides, and the La Tuna Fire of 2017 that burned the Verdugo Hills and the peaks and canyons on both sides of the 210 freeway. Only four houses were destroyed this time ("only" - tell it to the four families that lost everything!) and no lives were taken. But still... the black bare slopes remain.
charcoal on the left
charcoal on the right -
210 after fire
It could have been much worse, if not for bravery and endless work of over 1,000 firemen from the entire Southern California region. When I went swimming on Monday, I ran into firemen from Santa Barbara, Santa Maria, Montecito, Lompoc...They came to the pool to have a shower. Maybe they were called late to tame down the ever growing monster, spreading in four directions at once, maybe they did not see much action, still they were there to protect us.
flames dance and scorch
firemen dance with water among them
our hearts dance to thank them
Their bravery and dedication is beyond doubt - but, in fact, expected. They are all owed our unbounded gratitude, fire after fire, year after year. They risk their lives to protect ours.
What was the greatest surprise for me in the La Tuna Fire was the bravery of about ten ordinary citizens who instead of sheltering in their homes, opted to save the cultural gem of the foothills, the McGroarty Arts Center on the slopes adjoining to the area that first started burning and continued through Friday, Saturday and Sunday, with flareups on Monday.
Willow Bosco and her mother Austina, McGroarty Board member, stayed at the Center overnight; Willow, a delicate young student, with remarkable strength handled the hose, soaking the Center's roof and walls, and all the nearby trees with water. Volunteer firefighter Bill Myers brought the extra long hoses and used them, working along with other volunteers, whom I met on Sunday afternoon, to soak burning trees on Saturday and ensure that all vegetation and ground were thoroughly wet to prevent further flareups on Sunday. The fire came down the hill and some trees in the park surrounding the Center burst into flames. We were perilously close to losing this cultural landmark, the home of the former poet laureate of California, John Steven McGroarty. The flareups were extinguished thanks to heroic efforts of Willow, Austina, Bill and many others whose names I did not get...
Ray Yocum, ceramics teacher was a fireman for three days.
Willow Bosco took out fires with water
Ray Yocum and Willow Bosco rest after two long days of fire-fighting.
Bill Meyers and Michelle Ramage
he says he "only brought the hose"
she that "only came with food"
Austina and Willow Bosco
Austina says she did not do it, just the neighbors
and her beautiful, brave daughter
they smile, relieved
after red-black days of fighting fires -
they saved the foothills' gem
Thank you to the heroes and heroines of the McGroarty Arts Center! Willow and Austina Bosco, Ray Yocum, Michelle Ramage from the McGroarty Arts Center, and the MAC's neighbors: Bill Meyers, Kenny Webb, Ben Grupp, Will Meyers, Chris Hall, and Curtis Cunningham.
Where was I? In my pomegranate and rose garden, editing a book, looking at clouds of smoke, watching the helicopters flying above every minute, back and forth, with water for the fire, and packing my personal music and poetry archive. Lots of manuscripts, early prints, signed books, letters, the family photo archives of my parents. So many suitcase of paper.
red bird in the sky
brings blue water to red flames
for victory of blue
Paper, not gold. My jewelry was stolen earlier, half of it, at least... along with my real camera, photo backup drive, family heirlooms, and more. For the whole week I was searching through, checking the losses, so the fire was not the threat that it seems to have been. Clothes and electronics can be replaced, but who will repaint an artwork that took Toti O'Brien 18 years to make? Square by square, drawn and embroidered, it came into being to adorn my wall...
Such is life in the foothills in dry, fire-prone California: waiting for the next wildfire, packing precious documents to be saved in case the flames come too close, hoping that this one and the next one will pass us by... And admiring the mountains, or rather the bare hills and canyons, covered with the velvet of green grass in the spring, with the velvet of gold grass in the rest of the year.
I wrote several poems about these mountains, and here's an older one.
Mountain Watch
They are a bit vain, aren’t they these mountains of ours, still young. They like being washed by the rain, making themselves pretty for sunset. Wet soil turns into a mudbath for these giant beauties. When they stretch and practice their dance moves, our houses crumble. Water jumps out of toilet bowls. Aunt Rosie’s favorite crystal vase shatters on the floor. The mountains shake boulders out of their skirts, lose weight. Rocks slide into our backyards. We stand watch. We are ready. Neighbor calls neighbor: “Are you OK?” A friend you did not know you had stops by. The danger looms. In ancient Rome, guards had to hold one hand up, with the finger on their lips in a sign of silence, attention. I read about it in a book, standing on my shelf, in a crowded row of treasures I hauled across the ocean, from the old country to an unknown world. I’d hate losing them to mud. When the mountains dress in red robes of fire, to dance in the night rites of destruction, sometimes it is too late for treasures. An old man lost a hundred years of memories, when his family heirlooms – pictures, tchotchkes – burned to ashes. His life spared, he still cries for what he cannot not bring back. We are lucky. Storms came and went. The neighbors lived, the houses survived. We were ready: moved out, moved in, moved out, moved in, awakened at midnight, sheltered by the goodwill of unknown friends. We watched. The storms passed. This was a good year. We will watch. The aging beauties will dance again.
I did not write that many poems about the end of the world, though I've been fascinated with disaster movies for a while, especially 2012, showing how the fabric of this world may be rolled back and unrolled again, in a different configuration. There are ends of the world happening on this Earth all the time, at all times. Every day, every time someone dies, it is the end of this world for that one person. And, sometimes, almost the end of the world for the people around them.
A purple anemone of mourning life and death, hurricanes and earthquakes - the spark, the heart, survives
And what about the hurricanes that flatten whole islands? Tsunamis that wash villages and cities away? Earthquakes that fold tall buildings into stacks of pancakes? Or crazy people shooting innocents to scare the rest of us into submission, into slavery? Yes, there are plenty of the ends of the world every minute.
Elijah's End
And the curtains of fire opened. And God walks through. And I fall on my knees Struck down by the might Of his presence.
And the ground under my feet Roars and trembles. And God is with me.
In awe, I do not dare to look Into the laughing beauty of his eyes. And the gale changes into a breeze. And God speaks in a whisper, Sweetly announcing The end of the world as it was.
And the sun stops in its tracks. And the world explodes. Filled with love, so much love, It could not bear existing For one more minute.
— now it ends -- — now it blossoms -- — now it grows again --
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) By Maja Trochimczyk, published in The Scream Online http://www.thescreamonline.com/poetry/poetry7-4/trochimczyk.html
It is time to send good wishes. For Christmas peace and delight. For New Year blessings. For Hanukah. For all other holidays that people celebrate at this time of the year. Why do we need holidays? Holy Days? To set aside some time and "sanctify" this time with feelings and actions of goodness, forgiveness, loving kindness, delight, child-like wander, joy, and peace, and tranquility of the heart that comes from being at-one with the world, at-one with the time and space of right here, right now.
In my Christmas and New Year Wishes for 2017, I quote poems and post pictures of gifts that I'm thankful for, the gifts of art, of poetry, of presence and enlightenment that I received from my friends or found somewhere, somehow.
I was quite surprised that I got a gift from a new poet at our readings, Mr. Yatindra Bhatnagar, a serious man who somehow reminded me of my father in his seriousness, and earnestness, gravitas, you could say. Here's the poem I received with delight and put on my desk at work:
LIFE
Life is sacrifice, make it,
Life is a reward, take it.
Life is beauty, admire it,
Life is success, desire it.
Life is a dream, conjure it,
Life is a struggle, endure it.
Life is community, reform it,
Life is a duty, perform it.
Life is reality, face it,
Life is love, embrace it.
Life is a battle, fight it,
Life is a path, light it.
Life is a game, play it,
Life is truth, say it.
(c) by Yatindra Bhatnagar.
Lovely, isn't it? The voice of reason, the call to embrace life in all its complexity and challenges, in truth, reality, beauty and love... Thank you, Yatindra.
Pacific Beach in Ventura (c) by Maja Trochimczyk, 2016
I was equally delighted when I got a message from my dear friend, a multi-talented poet-artist Toti O'Brien who wrote a short story about creating Sweet Relief, an artwork that now proudly adorns my home. Below is an excerpt from Toti's piece, published as "The Tapestry" in Communion, Issue 6. http://walleahpress.com.au/communion6-Toti-O'Brien.html
Toti O'Brien with Sweet Relief, August 2014,(c) by Maja Trochimczyk
"The inspiration for the painting came in times of fertility and steadiness, when I still was my own master. I conceived it as a mosaic of many squares, something I’d tackle a fragment at the time, then put together at last. From the same fertility a family sprung, while the work was two thirds on its way. The last third reflected my new status: I switched from brushes to needles… matching the mood of nursing and lullabying. The materials I used, thread and cloth, subliminally hinted at blood ties, domesticity." [...] "I decided to call the piece “Sweet Relief”, when I began the sewing portion… to express my focus: exploring effects on color and form of a barely hinted third dimension. Therefore, I provided no more than a technical definition. Although, those two words were the title of a song I had liked, ten years earlier. I had fallen in love with it, even decided to learn it, listening to the same old tape a disconcerting number of times." [...] "It took me sixteen years to complete the labor. During that time I was calling. Did relief ever come? I dare say yes. Stitch by stitch, I put it together. With my fading eyes, my ten fingers." And now, this beautiful piece, that took sixteen years to create, square by square, one after another, is in the central point in my home. I like watching the patterns, repeating, varying, from image to image, abstract, pastel, yet rich beyond belief... Thank you, Toti. It is fascinating to me that Toti had the persistence needed to finish the work, to keep adding to it, square by square, year by year. What an amazing project! But what's equally amazing are the blessings we receive. Blessings of patience...
Timeless Ray of Hope (c) by Maja Trochimczyk with text by Kimberly Meredith (thehealingtrilogy.com)
One source of blessings, for me, is the spiritual healer, Kimberly Meredith, who has a simple message, different for everyone, yet the same - forgiveness, love, compassion, living in the light, in love, in the present of grace.... I made an image with her words and hope to see her again. She helps people find their own way to health and happiness. My way to happiness includes my friends, especially the four "birds" of the Spiritual Quartet - Lois P. Jones (The Phoenix), Ambika Talwar (The Peacock), Susan Rogers (The Hummingbird) and myself (The Dove of Love, they called me). Once upon a time, the birds went to the forest. To be exact, to the enchanted forest sound-and-light installation at Descanso Gardens in La Canada. Pure magic. Something to remember and be deeply thankful for.
L to R: Maja, Ambika, Lois, and Susan at Descanso Gardens, 2016
There is a field of tulips changing color in waves, the symphony of oaks that play bells and chords modulating when you go around them, the color lights on the fog above water, the circles and spheres of light that change color when you walk from circle to circle,
Path of Light Drops, Maja Trochimczyk
The enchanted ancient forest with thousands of fire flies, the moving shadows on the lilacs, the blue, green and purple trees showing off their contours, the red lanterns reflected in the deep darkness of the water, beneath oak branches and camellia blossoms. Pure magic. With something for kids and something for adults, and stars above our heads, bright, oh so bright...
Give me your hand... by Maja Trochimczyk
This beautiful installation brings the best of technology and nature together. This is THE way to use the recent developments in technology: remote sensors that trigger beautiful sounds from hidden computers and loudspeakers when people dance about the oaks; light projectors and computer controls that move the thousands of fire fly lights on the canopies of redwoods and sycamores, that dance on the surface of the pond, that color the forest with a magic palette of violets and sapphires. All to create beauty, thankfulness and gratitude in people's hearts. The tall, majestic trees of Descanso Gardens are beautiful in any weather, any light. They are just that, beauty personified. But the colored lights and sounds add another dimension, playful, and delightful, to the already beautiful, enchanted and enchanting forest - something for children that are four, and children that are sixty four...
Rest with me... by Maja Trochimczyk
And then, I read, and read, and listened. I am on this endless quest to find the truth behind the truth, the core of reality hidden in plain view within our reality here and now. I found bits and pieces already. The Beatles sung about it - Love, Love, Love... It is so obvious and so present that it is so very easy to miss and ignore.
Japanese Garden by Maja Trochimczyk
You have to pause and think, or look at it from a different perspective. Say, the "timeline" of your life. Can you change this timeline, can you jump to a different reality, a different world? Yes, it is easy, so easy. And you can do it in several steps (thanks to YouTube for posting the video with this inspiration, supposedly channeled from Egyptian deities that lived long ago).
First Step: Imagine as your goal the timeline of the world of Loving Kindness
Second Step: Fill your heart and head with the idea and feeling of Loving Kindness to all, everyone and everything, right here, right now
Third Step: Act with Loving Kindness towards all, everyone and everything, right here, right now, and always
Fourth Step: Persevere and maintain that mental and emotional state of Loving Kindness regardless of how people respond to you and how you are treated.
That's it, you are done. You have jumped to the timeline of Loving Kindness. You live in Heaven, or rather, Heaven lives in you.
Remember, the fourth step is the most important. Do not sink into regret, anger, fear, hatred, disgust, despondency, nor anything negative. Do not sink into the quagmire of self-inflicted negativity, neither self-indulgence, nor self-aggrandizement will take you to your destination of Loving Kindness.
Isn't it great? Entering this blessed and blissful world is very easy, having the intention to do it is also easy, what's hard is to keep going, stay in this magic kindgom, and maintain your attitude and feelings of Loving Kindness towards all, everyone and everything in the face of adversity, cold, trouble, mosquitoes that bite your arms, or pesky and annoying people that say nasty things to annoy you. So I wish everyone to find their own world of Loving Kindness and fill this world with blessings of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control...If all people followed that path we'd have no wars, right? Why don't I start from myself? And end there? Since I cannot change others, only myself? Loving Kindness is one of the names of God, and if we are made of Loving Kindness, we are simply Divine! Here's a poem of gratitude for this astounding gift.
So now only one thing remains to be done, to wish all my poetic and artistic and kind and loving friends, warm and happy Holidays and a wonderful New Year!
May your Heart be light as a Feather,
May your Smile be bright as the Sun,
May your Days be sweetened with Laughter,
Happy HolyDaysof LovingKindness and Fun!
Best wishes for the Holiday Season and the New Year 2017!
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:
