Spring is in the Air, with Mockingbirds and Plum Trees

I saw two mockingbirds in a battle with four large, black crows that came to eat their babies out of a nest in the oleanders. The mockingbirds were less than half the size of the crows, they were outnumbered yet they fought fiercely, fearlessly.  They led the crows towards a big tree across the neighbor yards. One after another they flew at the crows to peck them with their sharp beaks. It lasted for more than ten minutes. I would help them if I could but I cannot even throw stones, and definitely have no guns around, so what is one to do? My heart went out to the brave birds, so beautiful with their white stripes on their tails and open wings... They are my favorite residents in the garden, I love listening to the infinite variety of phrases in their liquid melodies, flowing, like flute improvisations, clear and there sparkling in sunlight.

The next morning only one crow returned, and was chased away by the mockingbird. Then, I saw another couple in the same dance as I was going on my morning walk. The same dance of love of your offspring, fearless love, fighting with the lazy crows, who did not seem desperate or hungry, just filling their time with something to do...

Everything is in bloom. The roses are huge and the rainbow of hues richer than ever. I added more fragrant bushes - Grande Dame, Double Delight, more Love, silver on the outside and vermilion inside. Some I did not save the name-tags for, though I should have, now I do not know what to look for, after they prove themseves, blossoming in the garden.

My peach tree had dark mauve flowers, but they came and went too quickly. There will not be many peaches this year.  At my friend's house a plum tree blossomed and was so pretty with the pink-white blossoms with darker stamens, that it became a spring poem:

The Day of a Plum Tree


Like a pink anemone 
at the bottom of the sea
stamens dance in slow motion
Plum flowers open and stretch 
towards the sun   -  the sun   - the sun

They drink the dew and juices of the earth
flowing up the roots, the trunk, the branches

Their petals like layers of crinoline skirt
 fold and unfold, re-arranging themselves 
around dark plum-hued heart of hearts 
Dancing stamens wait for the bees 
to make honey and fruit out of 
their passing beauty

Soon, breeze will rise
among branches - pink blizzard 
of swirling petals                              will waltz         

                    through the air 

to the ground                  to the roots            into 

oblivion

The flowering 
of the plum tree 
once again

(c) 2019 by Maja Trochimczyk

I've been working on my folk ballads series, their designated readers are in prison, locked up, rejected by society whose rules they rejected first.  More complicated verse might go right above their heads, rhyme makes things easier to remember.  After the Ballad of the New Sun, the Ballad of the New Star, the Ballad of the Heart, and the Ballad of the Golden Scroll, time for The Ballad of Angels.

The Ballad of Angels

If I were an angel,

I’d know how not to cry.

Everything would be perfect

In my gold-winged life.

If I were an angel,

White star within my heart,

My path, the space around me

Would sparkle in the night.

If I were an angel,

You would not hear me lie.

Truth is so simple, always

It teaches us to fly.

Oh, wait! I am an angel

Wrapped in a rainbow glow.

I dance like crimson sunbird

In clear skies high above.

I am God’s light servant.

I speak, I walk in truth.

Dazzling, resplendent quetzal

turns dark to dawn to noon.

Angels are all connected

To serve the greatest good

So every living creature

Is happy as they should.

We too, can be angelic,

Filled with the divine grace

If we throw off our burdens

Of guilt, of shame, of vice.

Our path is clear and narrow

Don’t seek forbidden fruit.

Follow the guidance given

Step onwards, foot by foot.

We’ll reach our destination

Our wings grown wide and bright.

Hearts soft, like dove’s feathers

We’ll dance high, in the light.

I'm not quite satisfied with it, maybe rhymed work does not suit me, it seem too rhythmic, too clodding. It does not have the rhythm of dance, of poetry, it is more like heavy steps of a prisoner. So maybe it would fit and have an effect where all else failed?

Who knows, what I can do, the only thing I can do, is write.  Workshops are great to fix poems, I like bringing first drafts to workshops, not finished poems, because then I get  help in correcting errors, or finding things that I have not seen, such as using the same word twice in close proximity or adding a "punch line" to a poem that does not need one, for it is not a joke.

Here's the new, improved version of what was once "A Poem of No Name" - and is "On Landscapes: A Guidebook" - the reference to Baroque poetry with all these Capitals is purposeful, as is the allegory.  

On Landscapes: A Guidebook

First you cross the Salt Plains of Rejection

into the Desert of Abandonment.

Mount Disappointment lies just beyond

The Valley of Regret. This is a huge country.

You lived there for decades. You explored

every nook and cranny; path, boulder, crevice.

Ever since your mother disappeared

for five months and a year. Ever since

you learned to write at six to send her

your desperate pleas: “Mommy, come back.

Mommy, I love you. Mommy, why don’t you

love me, any more?” You re-lived this story

time and time again. In every marriage, romance. 

Now you know too well how it feels.

Now you can open the enchanted book

and say the words of magic.

You pour out a River of Molten Light –

dazzling, white hot, yet cool to touch –

over the chaff of broken feelings, the dust

of memories you wish were not yours

to keep and gather for the Ancient One.

The chaff burns.

The shadows flee.

You find a grain of gold

Under your feet.

Smooth, shiny, polished,

It is yours to keep.

Is it a grain? Look closer, a golden acorn

rests in the palm of your hand. Plant it

in Guilt Valleys. Plant it in the Deserts 

of Despair. plant on Fear Mountain slopes.

Plant on wind-swept Plains of Sorrow.

It grows so fast. Soon, a magnificent oak tree

spreads out its gold leaves and boughs.

New life in your Landscape of Desolation. 

Look through its branches. Be mindful, 

attentive. What do you see?

Here: the Fertile Fields of Bonding.

There: the Rainbow Meadows of Connection.

Look carefully now. See the Pristine Peaks 

of Fulfillment, the Sun Garden of of Gratitude? 

Filled with every kind of fragrant blossoms, 

the heady perfume of rose and jasmine, 

delicate scent of lavender and forget-me-nots, 

liquid melodies of birdsong in the air.

This is not a mirage.  

This is your own world 

to conjure up, delight in.

Here. This gold grain is for you. 

Will it become an acorn or 

a pine cone in your hand? 

Come. Let's plant it 
and watch it grow.

(c) 2019 by Maja Trochimczyk 

Three Ballads of Light and Blue Skies of the Spring

Never say never! I thought I was completely unable to write rhymed poetry and could only write free verse. Until this spring. Now, I know I can write other things as well, though sonnets are still beyond me. I posted my first folk ballad last time, A Ballad of New Sun. In comments, I talked about the identity of the two protagonists - I, you, she, he, mine, his, hers... I decided that he/she would work best, but then, what if you revert the roles? And now he would be healing her? Interesting idea. Let's call this version A Ballad of New Star.

A Ballad of New Sun


He came out of nowhere with head bowed down low
in shame and in sorrow, contrite.

His face wrapped in shadows, cloak black as a tombstone,
he came out of nowhere at night.

He stood there before her with head bowed down low
asking silently, asking for love.

Her hands on his chest, his heart beating wildly,
steady current flowed out from her palms.

Light and Love, Light and Love, so much Light, so much Love,
the black cloak broke stiffly in half.

Rays of bright light exploded: he flew out of his cage
in a lightning, a flash of delight.

He was free, she was thrilled. Two halves of dark shell
fell down on the ground far below.

In brightness most fine with high outstretched arms
her rose up, the birth of new dawn.

But did he have wings?  We don't know, we can't tell.
It looked like, maybe, he did.

Could he fly? He did fly, bursting out of his shell
like a phoenix, a comet, a kid.

In a lightning of love he ascended so free
shining true, a phoenix  of might.

She was happy, so glad. She laughed out so loud -
such miracle, the dream of her heart.

In a whirlwind of rays comets, stardust and sparks,
divine brightness, more dazzling than moon.

There's a new star, new sun as he glows, laughs and shines
turning midnight into high noon.

He's her brother reborn, gold prince of new dawn,
floating on weaves of fire and air.

Now her job here is done, her two hands on his chest
healing, breaking the spell of despair.

Oh, sweet love has healed him. Oh, sweet love has freed him.
She let the One Love flow through her arms.

No matter how dark, no matter how lost,
we can wake, we can shine, become stars.

We are free, we can fly, high above midnight sky. 
So much love, so much light, so much care.

It's for us that this Love flows so brightly tonight,
and we sing of new life, of new world. 


(C) 2019 by Maja Trochimczyk

This dream-vision of healing and interstellar flight works well either way, whether she healed him or he healed her, we are all healers taking care of each other's wounds.  In the version she/he, I changed the word "chest" into "heart" - because of basic human anatomy and what men tend to think and do, it is better not to invoke the image of "his hands on her chest" - that immediately has unwanted erotic undertones. Somehow, "her hands on his chest" do not give rise to this association, at least not in my mind. There are people for whom everything has such associations, and those who never think about those things. For poems about spiritual healing, these thoughts are simply a distraction.

After the rains, on a cold winter morning, the sky was pristine, pure "sky-blue" - without a trace of smog, a trace of chemtrails. Pure azure expanse, turquoise at the bottom, azure high up. I went for a walk by the river. I found a huge, heart-shaped rock. I picked it up and put on top of an enormous boulder that had an indent that served as a shelf for the heart-rock, to make sure it does not slide down, I put a small white rock at the bottom, to help it stay upright, well-balanced. One line came to me, from which the following ballad flew out smoothly. No, I did not carry the rock with me. It was too heavy. I let the boulder carry my rock, it was much better this way. But the poem says something else. Why not? It is just a folk ballad...

A Ballad of  New Heart

Once I found a rock heart, my heart of hard rock.
I took it to carry with me.

Along muddy shores of the river of time
that flows down in the ravine.

I carry my rock as I walk up the hill 
of a thousand stones, all so cold.

The rock now softens and moves in my hands,
it melts into heart of pure gold.

I carry my gold heart up the mountain, up high,
I carry, I carry its weight.

With each step it's heavier, its surface so hard.
Careful! it might slip out of my hands.

I know how the river races down, full of mud.
I'm lucky, I turned to go up.

This weight is for me to carry alone.
It is my heart of rock, my own task.

It starts feeling alive, in the warmth of my hands.
I thought it was only a rock.

I cradle it safely in my two folded arms
as I bring it up high, to the top.

Here the sky is clear blue. Winter storms have all passed.
I look at smooth river below.

I thought it was muddy, full of dirt as it rushed,
but it sparkles with rainbows aglow.

It's my river that flows, my heart changed to flesh.
I discovered my treasure of old.

You will, too, find your heart, change your rock into gold
to cherish, to love, and to hold.


(c) 2019 by Maja Trochimczyk
 

 

The next folk-style ballad has a different ending from the one I first envisioned. Again, it was originally written in first person, with the angel as a "he" - but to make it more universal I changed it into she and he, her angel. I also changed the ending into a more positive one, from the frozen scene when either of the protagonists could not move, not one step. Ice is melting on the river, so it can flow again. This ballad is based on a very strange and detailed dream I had and tried to describe in my dream notebook. It is so important to write down these strange, vivid and colorful dreams in as much detail as possible right away. They contain useful lessons of how to deal with the present, and the past, how to act in the future.

A Ballad of Golden Scroll

Once she saw a path of shadow leading straight to her back,
stretching far, into mists, into void.

With black fog swirling 'round, it was made of despair,
guilt, shame, and remembrance of wrongs.

Now the Sun rose within her, its light poured out through.
She was brighter than bright morning star.

It was time to let go, end this lesson of pain.
The Sun's brightness was seen from afar. 

So she rolled up this path of shades and of mists
'round the black hole of tears and regrets.

As it rolled like a carpet, she saw gold underneath,
cobwebs over brilliant gold nets.

The roll was too heavy for her to take up.
She called "help!" Angels knelt on both sides. 

All of light, all in white, they shone as they knelt
on one knee, with the scroll of her past.

She looked closer but now only one angel stayed,
shadows wrapped up in dazzling light.

Her past faults and her hurts, he held in both hands.
He was kneeling, her angel at night.

She could see his white wings, opened wide, made of light,
their long tips stretched far, north and south.

The pathway behind her was clear, pure and gold,
shining brightly and smooth like a pearl.

She tied silver cord around the scroll and said "fly!"
End to end of horizon, his wings. 

With one sweep, he rose up, carrying her heavy load
to release it on currents of wind.

High above was the speck, in the sky, in the Sun.
It exploded in a shower of sparks.

His huge wings filled the air with his delighted song.
With sweet voice, tender song of her heart. 

Pain was gone, she was free. It was bright all around.
Light aglow in her body, her veins.

You should know there's a myriad of angels around.
They will help you break your own chains.  


(C) 2019 by Maja Trochimczyk

Sometimes my poet friends ask me why am I not pursuing a "proper" more prestigious venue for my poetry. I do this for fun, for the delight of sharing, not for career or glory or honors. I've had enough of those already, plus it is not that important. Sharing the discoveries of how to get rid of darkness and live in the light is much more needed. It makes me feel lighter, makes me smile. I'm as clear as the blueness of blue skies above. For a moment, at least. What more can I ask for? What more do I need? Writing something new I actually like to read. That's perfection, right here, right now. 

On Oaks, Maples, Gold Leaves and Angel Wings

When you travel you try to be in two places at the same time, where you live and where you are a guest. The timelines split and you enter the wonderful country of what if... 

Ujazdowski Park in Warsaw, Maple Tree.

In my recent travels to Poland I spent some days in Warsaw, walking through its wonderful parks, admiring the ancient trees, and then a week in Krakow, where the Old Town is surrounded by Planty - a park built in place of city walls and its moat.

In Warsaw I visited the Orthodox cemetery where my parents are buried. They both loved picking leaves in the park on Sundays in autumn. And the trees around the tombstones are full of birds singing, talking to each other... And the breeze flutters in the treetops... And it is quiet, and tranquil, and all is well...A place of reflection and rest. No wonder Poles especially Polish widows spend so much time in cemeteries!

and here we are

with bouquets of bronze leaves

timeless in sunlight

I spent most of Sunday and Monday  in October wandering around my beloved Warsaw - Pola Mokotowskie (Pilsudski Park) and Park Ujazdowski with the Paderewski Monument, and the Old Town, were the highlights of course....

striped with shadows

gold oak leaves get ready

for winter

I called those leaves "real oak leaves" and my son said, what do you mean, Mom, so California oaks are not real? Not in the same way, to me. Of course beautiful, especially when you see them, dark green and perfectly shaped, outlined against the gold grass... but the colors are reversed in Poland where the grass is always green (or covered with snow) and oaks reach for the glory of the Sun in their majestic golds and bronzes... 

no, we will not go -

said the leaves on one oak tree

in November

my oak leaves

turn sunny gold and bronze 

before first snowfall   

a blur of gold leaves

waits for the chilling wind - 

end of summer

so above as below

gold on the ground,  gold in the sky - 

last days of autumn

all made of gold -

I drink pure sunlight 

at noon

red, bronze and gold 

paint steps into bareness - 

last days of freedom

I witness it all - 

tragedies and joys pass  by  

under my branches

my path of treasures

no time to pick them all - 

an autumn rainbow

do leaves exist for

branches or branches for leaves?

there's no answer

many winters

one war after another -

the one to last

maple bright, maple right

paints the blue sky 

day and night

gold maple leaves  - 

uncounted on twisted branches,

explained by sunlight

Apparently at the end of the 19th century Krakow had such bad climate, it was Poland's capital for tuberculosis and other respiratory diseases, so the City Council made a bold decision, protested by many, including the famous painter Jan Matejko. But history had to give in to health, and the walls were taken out, moats were filled and trees planted, now ancient and surrounding the city with a beautiful green or gold ring. . .

Autumn Wings

A blue-winged pink angel
landed on my desk with a flutter, left one
soft white feather and disappeared
with a smile suspended in mid-air
like the Cheshire Cat.

I’m Alice in Wonderland,
as I wander and wonder,
bewildered by the beauty
of gold leaves under my feet,
mystique of sunrays piercing the fog
patiently filling spaces between 
church towers and ancient 
maple trees receding into silence.

Swish – swish –  the angel’s wings
above me. Swish – swish – 
crumbling leaves mark every step
as I walk through the golden park – 
its beauty unnoticed by passersby
rushing to appointments, parties.
Yet, this glory will sustain us.
This is what is – I stop to breathe in 
the scent of autumn leaves 
and last pale roses faintly disappearing 
into the silence of sleep

marked by the flutter of wings, 
blue wings of my brown-eyed angel.
Shy, demure, he looks down at his feet,
bare toes sticking out under  the pink  robe.
Oh, what delightful noise they would make
when he walked between the massive 
oaks, shrouded by the evening mist

swish – swish – swish  –
now and forever
swish –swish – swish – 


September in Krakow, 2017

And now, that we are in angelic realms, let's read one more angelic poem:

     Just One Secret

      Are you born of untold darkness?
      Are you a child of light?

     When was the last time
     you saw an angel in Hollywood?
     Awesome, majestic,
     dressed in light and ten feet tall?
     With rainbow wings
     perhaps, and a diamond crown?

     This gentle brightness
     is here to guide you
     hover above, guard your back - 
     It casts no shadow so you see
     clearly each turn and pitfall
     on your path.

     This is no faith, no hope,
     just plain knowledge - 
     look all around you,
     open your eyes -

    There is one beside the Superman
    another one above Snow White
    with too much makeup 
    Batman goes hand in hand  
    with his invisible winged twin

    An archangel watches over
    Darth Vader n a tattered cloak
    (in case the light saber is real)
    and a clown cannot shake off
    a flock of putti that giggle
    while pulling on his top hat.

    Cherubs, Seraphim
    with six wings, halos - 
    pure, luminescent
    dazzling and brilliant

    they simply ARE!

There is yet another "angel" poem that I posted here in December 2015 after coming back from Paris, "An Invitation to the Dance" (see http://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2015/12/on-polish-christmas-in-paris-at-notre.html). It was officially published in the Altadena Poetry Review 2016, and then reprinted in the Poetry and Dance II anthology in 2017.  It will also appear in the new version of Rose Always - A Love Story, where it belongs.

Easter Wishes and Awakenings

Who said that Easter is about pastel flowers, cute rabbits that lay eggs and are made of chocolate, and fluffy dresses with matching hats? Medieval sculptors, carving the emaciated body of Christ, covered with realistic wounds and blood droplets, had an entirely different vision. Mary of Magdalen had a vision, too: the gardener, she thought, but it was He, and she realized her mistake only when He said, "Noli me tangere..." - "Do not touch me..."

Our love wants to be physical, fluffy, tangible, warm, sensuous. It is very hard to imagine a different kind of love, something greater, unique and universal, human and divine, always the same and always new. The true colors of Easter are the intense reds of the blood spilled on the Cross; the intense purples of coagulated droplets and the sorrow of Good Friday, a day of absence; the dazzling gold shine of flames of a new fire during Easter Vigil; and the brilliance of Easter bells ringing, ringing up to Heaven on that astounding, joyous morning, when all, finally, is well, once for all.

Instead of Easter wishes this year, I wrote a poem about the end of the world. It is really Harry Mulisch's fault. He should not have written that novel about the Discovery of Heaven, which is, actually, about the Discovery of Hell - unseen and distant God takes His Commandments back from the unfaithful, sinful humanity, leaving the traitors to their chosen fate in the Kingdom of Satan. That's what Mulisch's imagined and convincingly described. In the novel, the astronomer who finally discovered Heaven is killed by angels with a meteorite, so he fails to share the secret.

His son becomes the new Messiah, finds the stone tablets, as blue as the lapis-lazuli of his eyes, and takes them up to Heaven, floating in the air, surrounded by a whirlwind of Hebrew letters detached from the holy precepts that were ignored and disobeyed for far too long.



Here's my "Easter Apocalypsis" illustrated, appropriately, with a fading, dying rose.

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 steps of a beauty
Gliding 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 tired 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 down the slopes.
Let’s sit on the porch, doze off
In honeyed sunlight, before it
Disappears, transfigured.

Let us believe there will be
Light, enough light 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.


Now, it would not be fair to all the chocolate lovers out there, if my Easter wishes were limited to this brief vision of the end of the end, a cosmic catastrophe that we will survive only if we allow ourselves to focus on the unbearable lightness of being, the heart of the heart. That happens when we awaken from non-being to an awareness that only what's within truly lasts, that the least tangible of our possessions - a fleeting moment of kindness, a gesture of compassion and comfort - is an eternal treasure, a sapphire hidden in ashes and dust.

I found a treasure this year, I found a friend. I also found a poem in a painting by another friend - a painting I like so much I would love to find myself inside it. Susan Dobay, a Hungarian artist is both spiritual and earthly, a hostess who laughs with her guests and feeds them regional specialties, but scolds them for being too loud when a poet reads something she'd like everyone to pay attention to (even if she is sometimes too busy making sure they listen, to do it herself).


Awakenings

~ after a painting “City Whispers” by Susan Dobay

First to wake: the maple tree.
Up and up, sprouting from a seedling.
With a crown of burnished gold, white
diamond crystals for winter –
It slept through blizzards to flourish
dressed in pinks and celadons.

Second awake: the girl.
Watching the trees from her bed
Or her wheelchair. She cannot go far
Into the streets, filled with noise.
Protected by smooth glass panes
She sees the buds on each twig
Fill out until they burst
Into carmine, wrinkled bows
Small and shiny, maturing
As they change into the green.

The third: a robin calling out
To his friends, dispelling darkness
With his shrill fluted motives.
The spring is woven from his calls,
Warmed up in red feathers on his chest.
He came late to scratch the ground
For a worm to peck, a beetle.
The looping birdsong measures
The coming of days. It floats up and up,
Above the rooftops.

The girl touches her curly blond hair
Growing longer, straighter
As the nurse braids it each morning.
The life, the light, she wishes
For this power to come in.
Make her walk, yes, make her walk.
She stretches up and up.
Outside, city whispers.

It was a distinct pleasure to read this poem while being accompanied on a flute by Rick Wilson: his music rose up and up in the middle two stanzas, appearing after a silence and allowing the tranquility of the sick girl's room to speak for itself at the end. In some way, it was my best reading with music. Rick was truly inspired. Susan Dobay and Mira Mataric said they identified with that handicapped girl, whose longing for wholeness and health is our longing, at other times expressed in the search for perfectly decorated chocolate eggs, tulips and the new spring dress for Easter.

In Poland, we used to say "Wesolego Jajka!" as if an Egg could actually be Joyous. Maybe we have to return "ab ovo" - to the beginning and start anew, with a rediscovered capacity to experience real joy? Before God takes his Commandments back and leaves us all to the dreadful fate of non-existence, without the source of all being? You know, that one: Beauty, Goodness, Truth.

Let the Easter bells ring, ring, and ring.

Alleluia! Pangue lingua gloriosi...


Pangue lingua sung by Coro de Cámara Abadía

___________________________________________________

Illustrations:

Photographs of flowers (C) 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk

Susan Dobay's Painting "City Whispers" - the poem "Awakenings" is a part of Kath Abela Wilson's poetry book project dedicated to the art of Susan Dobay.

Two recordings of bells from Il Duomo (Cathedral Santa Maria del Fiore) in Florence, Italy. From YouTube.com.