Love the Sweetest, Angel Love - Quotes and Poems from Friends and Strangers

What is Love, if not a trip to Paradise? What is Paradise if not the place/time or time/place beyond place, beyond time, spent with those we love? So here's another Valentine's Day post, one in a series, with love poems and beautiful words of reassurance, compassion, and affection received from friends and strangers.

Jessica and Juan Cardenas celebrate with guests, February 6, 2016

First, friends.... Last weekend, I hosted the second anniversary party for the love-birds, Jessica Wilson Cardenas and Juan Cardenas at my home, a garden-party on a beautiful, sunny afternoon, filled of affection, music, poetry, and joy....

Jessica Wilson Cardenas and Juan Cardenas with their brand new T-shirts "Feel This Love"

We read poetry, and my poem "On Divine Commedy and Ice Cream" was inspired by illuminations for Dante's Il Paradiso by Giovanni di Paolo, a contemporary of Giotto. One of our guests, Victor Sotomayor recorded my reading and made a beautiful video of the performance, with a mini-lecture introduction about Il Paradiso and what it means for us.




On Divine Comedy and Ice-Cream

My Muse has chocolate eyes and a goatee.
Disabled by grief, he looks for me in the dark,
touching. His hands outline the contour
of my hips as he sighs and says “that’s right”
in this deep baritone of his, the sweetest of voices. 

What next? I wonder as we sit on the leather sofa
sticky in the heat, eat almonds and ice cream,
watch silly comedies about aliens and time 
machines, friends being excellent  to each other... 
as we leaf through the thick volume 
of other Comedy, the Divine one: 
Il Paradiso illustrated by Giovanni di Paolo,
medieval illuminations for the end of time.

Submerged  in the Earth’s shadow, the Moon 
is the haven for the likes of us, inconstant,
waxing and waning, not keeping their vows.
Dante and Beatrix, the poet and his beloved,
rise up to Mercury and Venus, the Garden 
of Earthly Delights where we stay 
as they ascend from the Fourth Sphere
of the Sun through the Eight of Fixed Stars.

Left behind, we sigh and look up at them
floating to meet the wise, the virtuous, martyrs,
saints, the multitude of angels in Primum Mobile
and the blessed, don’t forget the blessed
of the Tenth Sphere, the divine Empyrean –
in the heart of Paradise where gold rays 
of light always permeate everything, 
where saints sleep in rose petal pods, 

like babies by their mothers, 
or splash in and out of the waters of grace,
the river of serenity that flows under
the buzzing of heavenly bees, making 
timeless honey – sweet, translucent, 
gold honey, only honey, forever and beyond time, 
honey….

(C) 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk

After this visit to Paradise, Juan played some of his songs, Jessica read her sensuous poem about Grapefruit, mmm, so goood... and we had such a blessed afternoon, in Paradise, the Garden of Earthly Delights...

Me encanta las toronjas,

the blossom of fragrance makes its way into my hands,
unfolds like petals upon my skin.
The weight of its shape is heavy
with intention,
to release its galaxy, an ointment of pleasure
sparkling in a rippling tide. 
This is the fruit of the sun, 
its sunshine dripping off of my lips,
squeezed into realness, of comfort.
Juicy nature jugs me from the inside,
pulling my belly up into my throat,
until it lays flat on my tongue.
so few things are as gratifying as this orb of citrus,
so perfectly awake and wide for me to taste.
Ah, me encanta la fruta hecha de las manos 
de los dioses, y tan perfecto en circulo
como las caras de la luna y sol.
Yo toco el sabor con la esperanza
del mundo donde la gente hacen la paz de simplicidad 
y la naturalesa de Pachamamma por siempre,
donde nuestros labios nunca tienen sed
y las pansitas viven llenas. 
Oh let it be, that this dream will see us through 

to our eternity.             - Amen y por siempre, Amen. 

(c) by Jessica Wilson Cardenas

Then the "love-birds" had two cakes with two candles each, for the second year together: a white cheesecake for the day, and dark chocolate ganache cake for the night... Sweet, with a multitude of fruit, that belongs in paradise where every one is loved and loves.

Thank God for friends for all times... Several weeks earlier I received an invitation to participate in an email "chain letter" - something I studiously managed to avoid for so long! Despite the curses and threats and vain promises made by authors of missives assuring me of good or bad luck, depending on whether I forwarded the silly note within five minutes to twenty people.  Here's an example. I did not email it to 20 people; instead I'm posting it here:

This is for u x Read till the end! I sent an angel to watch over you last night, but it came back and asked "why?" The angel said, "angels don't watch over angels!" twenty angels are in your world. Ten are sleeping, nine of them are playing and one is reading this message. The universe has seen you struggling with some things and says it over. a blessing is coming your way. If you believe in Karma send this message to 14 friends including me, if I don't get it back I guess I'm not one of them. As soon as you get 5 replies, someone you love will quietly surprise you... Not joking. Pass this message on. Please don't ignore it. you are being tested and Karma is going to fix two big things tonight in your favor. If you believe in Karma drop everything and pass it on TOMORROW WILL BE THE BEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE. DON'T BREAK THIS. SEND THIS TO 14 FRIENDS IN 10 MINUTES IT'S NOT THAT HARD. WHOEVER SENT THIS TO YOU MUST CARE ABOUT YOU!!!

That other one was different, there were no threats of "breaking the chain" and punishments for it. Instead, it entailed sending a friendly, encouraging note to just one person and inviting twenty to do the same, so one person would receive twenty notes of friendship and encouragement from complete strangers... This seems interesting... what would people come up with? So I sent my favorite Irish blessing of light, and waited...

May the blessing of Light be on you. 

Light without and light within, 

May the blessed sunlight shine on you. 

And warm your heart till it glows like a great peat fire...

Not much later, I received my first words of encouragement. I like this phrase so much I put it on my own "candy rose" - covered entirely in water droplets - and sent it to the poet who blessed me with this insight:

Then, I got a poem by Rumi:

Beyond ideas of

right and wrong

there is a field,

I will meet

you there.

                                ~  Rumi

from Maria Elena B. Meyer

Another poet I hardly know send me a quote and his own poem:

Here is a quote and "short" play-with-a-sweet-word poem by me to you.

 “Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.” – Henry Van Dyke

*************************

SHORT AND SWEET

by Ken Frankel

Butter ....is sweet!

Ice cream ....is sweet!

Beauty ...is sweet!

Love is the sweetest.

*************************

Hard to argue with that final statement!. Finally, a poem from Lulu Abramian came my way:

Measure

Do not measure up

Life is not quantity

Value what you have

Life is quality

Where you are going

Will always be there

Treasure the moments

Will help you get there

 By: Lulu Abramian

Finally, I got a comment from a poet, who decided against participating in the email chain, but sent me her favorite prayer:

The Lord is my shepherd, 

I shall not want;...

in green pastures...

beside still waters 

He restoreth my soul.

While looking for the text of the Irish Blessing of Light cited above, I came across a full text of what appears to be a folk-song, of love, connections to nature, the sun, the living things, and the earth and, in short, connection.  People are social animals, without other people they wither and die inside. The connection of love is vital for life. Maybe that's why the two words in English differ only by one consonant?

Here's the entire Irish Blessing Text from a Folk Song:

1. May the blessing of Light be on you
Light without and light within,
May the blessed sunlight shine on you
And warm your heart till it glows like
A great peat fire, so that the stranger
May come and warm himself at it,
And also a friend.
And may the light shine out of the two eyes of you,
Like a candle set in two windows of a house,
Bidding the wanderer to come in out of the storm.

2. And may the blessing of the Rain be on you
The soft sweet rain. May it fall upon your spirit
So that all the little flowers may spring up,
And shed their sweetness on the air.
And may the blessing of the Great Rains be on
You, may they beat upon your spirit
And wash it fair and clean,
And leave there many a shining pool
Where the blue of heaven shines,
And sometimes a star.

3. And may the blessing of the Earth be on you
The great round earth; may you ever have
A kindly greeting for them you pass
As you're going along the roads.
May the earth be soft under you when you rest upon it,
Tired at the end of the day,
And may it rest easy over you when,
At the last, you lay out under it;
May it rest so lightly over you,
That your soul may be out from under it quickly,
And up, and off, and on its way to God.

Isn't it delightful, and full of sweet, gracious sentiments, connecting us to the earth, the air, the sunlight? Yes, I say, as I celebrate my new Italian nickname, courtesy of erudite and wise poet and editor Margaret Ute Seine: "Una Donna Solare" - the Sunny Lady....

And here we are, all smiles: sisters in spirit, in poetry, in art... after the LoveLoveLove reading (Spectrum 3, edited by Don Kingfisher Campbell) in Pasadena, with the inspired Ambika Talwar, who knows secrets of ancient wisdom and unties hidden knots... she had 22 photos in the book, I had just one poem ("Many Happy Returns"), and a bell, let's not forget the bell....

My Sky - A Poem of Found Images

I like seeing light in the world, permeating little things, enchanting. I notice its presence with a child's wonder, seeing the world for the first time, as if it did not exist before I looked. Raindrops on leaves are an endless fascination. There is nothing as happy as the grass, covered with dewdrop diamonds in the morning after a short summer rain.

In one old children's poem, shape-shifting clouds take the forms of endlessly changing desserts, stacks of cakes, ice-cream, whipped cream... Unlike the hungry, boy dreaming of sweets, Dyzio Marzyciel (The Dreamer), I don't see food above my head, only magic. The transformation of our world from the profane, ugly and boring to the sacred, saturated with quiet charm may happen anytime, anywhere.

In an instant, I see footsteps of the Greek goddess, Demeter, in another, I am moved to inhabit a painting... It takes just a bit of effort, after eyes are washed of the unwanted images of distress, chaos, pain. I still remember that stain of blood on the sidewalk in Venice, left after a suicide. I still see faces distorted by hate. I want to erase these memories with raindrops on rose leaves.

Some of my roses have impenetrable surfaces, keeping the raindrops round, jewel-like. Other ones absorb moisture in an instant, the drops spread out into amorphous blobs and disappear.

My life, my words, may be one or the other, visible or invisible, remembered or forgotten. I do not know what will happen when I'm gone. Now, this is my time to write, to record the beauty I discover. I am a witness to what I want to see. I could write about the rotten cans and layers of graffiti marring the landscape of the riverbed, and that rusty jeep that was sitting on the shore for years, gradually losing parts to the homeless, selling it off, bit by bit for scrap metal. OK, maybe I'll write about that jeep and the homeless. I already started, but that poem is still unfinished. Too dark, maybe? Too hopeless?

Today, it is time for something sweet. Isn't Halloween the day for treats?

MY SKY

A Poem of Found Images by Maja Trochimczyk


I live inside a painting
by Rene Magritte.


My river is made of silver,


my sunsets of tiger stripes.


I make my own rainbows.


My roses sing in the morning


to a sweet tune of water droplets


playing on the edges of leaves.


Spherical, crystal-clear globulets


of white light adorn each green surface,


like a handful of diamonds scattered


by Demeter, the goddess of plenty.


Water shines in full sunlight -


a child's memory, innocent and pure -


glistening before the breeze stirs,


droplets fall and petals begin their journey


crumbling into dust.

Poetry for an Art Auction

Do you want to know how did I end up with an enormous map of Venice waiting for its place on my wall? No? I'll tell you anyway. It is all the fault of the Sunland-Tujunga Alliance. This civic advocacy group was formed for the "No to Home Depot" campaign - one of the recent successes in the fight for self-determination in our foothill community. The group mobilized everyone else, persuaded our elected officials that they have to listen to our voices, and, despite fierce opposition of corporate interests and the efforts of their lobbyists, the community had its say.

Fast forward to September 2010. The Alliance decides to help local cultural groups and, with other local partners - artists and community activists organizes a Community Art Sale and Silent Auction to benefit three cultural institutions: McGroarty Arts Center, Bolton Hall Museum, Little Landers Historical Society. Over 60 pieces of art are available for sale including about 20 pieces from local artists and an entire collection of maps, drawings, prints, and photographs depicting such varied topics as sailboats, English manor scenes, bird's-eye maps of famous cities, caricatures, and construction scenes.

I was invited to write about the artwork on sale, but was featured at another reading on the same day, at the Flintridge Bookstore in La Canada. I could only be there for 30 minutes at the end. It was not a huge obstacle to the organizers, more a problem for me, since my favorite painting was sold by then (a landscape scene with yucca flowers in a art-deco gold frame), but I still felt I had to contribute a plem, buy an artwork and have my share in community life.

A visit to the event's website left me with short poem, about the rooster. I found the Asian-style image inspiring, for I'm a Rooster myself (in the Chinese Zodiac), as vain about my appearance as the painted bird:



The Rooster

© 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk

Crowned with red
I admire black feathers
of my silky tail

I wake up at night
to proudly crow about
my strong beak and talons

Buyer beware


The rest of the images on the site somehow did not make sense, I could not figure out what it was all about until I saw an album of photographs of the entire collection, donated to be sold anonymously and benefit Sunland-Tujunga's cultural organizations. Painter and activist Debby Beck brought the album to local Starbucks where I had a revelation! Pages and pages of hunt scenes, pages and pages of boats, pages and pages of workers soldering steel beams, pages and pages of maps... I was hooked and found my way into the imagery, capturing my impressions in free verse:


Dreaming of Elsewhere
© 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk

Red jackets shine against dark green foliage
of English copse and hedge.
Over the hill and dale ride the hunters.
Tally ho… Tally ho… hounds bark,
their voices echo through the fields
on a frosty morning.



Steam boats wait to take explorers
to the South Seas, Tahiti, Argentina.
White sails barely flutter in the breeze,
stiff and proud on the tall ships
of her Majesty, the Queen.

The West Australian,
The East Indian, Sultana,
The Kestrel – all are ready
for adventure, to circle the world,
conquer foreign lands,
bring back the gold of El Dorado.

Dreamers dreaming dreams –

We are at the edge of the ocean,
blue and deep, it stretches
to Japan we seldom think about
here, in the Far West
of Pacific Rim, Terra Incognita.

The lay of the land is clear
on antique maps, straight
from paintings by Vermeer –
only the milkmaid’s missing,
and the pearl. Canals, islands,
and church towers of Venice,
evenly measured empty blocks
of Atlanta, chaos of streets
crowded like children
at a Los Angeles fiesta,
and the mysterious labyrinth
of Boston, carved from sea,
sliced away from water.

Why Boston? Why so much Boston?
Is there a secret to this Eastern city
that explains Californian sun?



We do not hunt foxes in jackets
redder than their fur. We do not
wait for the sailboats and steamships
to take us where we do not belong.
We measure the lay of our land
in cypress, sycamore and live oak,
with the scent of sage shimmering
in summer heat above dried chaparral,
with star jasmine and orange blossoms
sweetening our winter gardens.

We are not going anywhere –
not to New York to construct
the tallest buildings of heavy steel,
not to an English manor
where silver is polished weekly,
and the butler serves tea
and scones at five o’clock.
Tally-ho…Tally-ho…

Dreamers dreaming dreams –

We are here, longing for
elsewhere. Shall we ever
catch foxes eating fruit
in our vineyards? Shall we
find ourselves in lands distant,
exotic, unknown?



The sailboats and steamships sailed away to distant shores; the maps and small pieces found their way to people's dreams. The center, museum and society counted and shared the donations. I was left in Venice, a six-foot-long, mahogany-framed detailed map of Venice - the magic city I dream of visiting again.

In Praise, Awe of the Mountains

Poetic inspiration comes from outside - the world - and inside - reflections and emotions. For me, being very sensitive to shapes and colors and the beauty of nature. California mountains are a major inspiration. I come from Poland which is a flat-country, with a small area of mountains in the south (the Tatras at the northernmost tip of Carpatian Mountains), some hilly terrain in the Foothills, and then flat all the way to the Baltic Sea. Fields, meadows and copses have their allure, the bigness of the sky above, if you walk out away from buildings, is astounding. The skylark's song falls on the ground like a rain of little bells. You do not even see the singer so high above your head...


But to live in California means to live in the mountains. Los Angeles has a bad rap internationally, as the city of crime, car chases, barbed wire, and graffiti. Nobody tells us before we come here of the amazing gardens, hills and mountains: San Gabriels, Santa Monica, Verdugo Hills... They criss-cross the terrain, so that everywhere we go we'd see something beautiful and breathtaking.

I live in the foothills, watch the mountains from my kitchen window, go for long walks in the dry river-bed of Tujunga Wash admiring the ever-changing colors and shapes of the mountains. Being aware that there are no cities for a while and they stretch for miles into the desert is a part of the allure of our little hermitage.

Interlude – Of the Mountains

I.

I love you, my mountains,
oranged into sunset
of embarrassment.

Your cheeks aglow –
what sin you’re hiding,
in waterless creases,
what guilt?

Or is it first love
that makes you shine
with such glory?


The sunlight in California is so different from northern areas of Canada, or Poland. There it is pale, often grayish, frail. Here it brings a rainbow of colors to everything it touches. Everything is more vivid, more intense, under the bright rays, in summer or winter...

II.

Bare mountains –
no – old grassy hills
worn out by wind
and torrential rains
shine in stark morning light
like exquisite folds
of red-brown velvet
covered with stardust.

Snow whitens the slopes
sculpted by crevices.

The earth sighs
in her sleep.


When my mother came to visit in 1999, she thought that these mountains, without a protective layer of trees, all exposed to the elements, looked like heaps of dought and still bore imprints of the giants' hands. I liked that image so much, I put it into a poem.

III.

I’ll never tire of these mountains
made from the earth’s dough
by the hands of a giant
who kneaded a cake
that was never finished,
the dough left in piles
on the table of smooth fields
surprised by their sudden end
in rich folds and falls
decorated with the icing of snow
on cloudy winter mornings.


The sunsets are astounding and the skies glow. It is the clearest and the most spectacular in the winter, after the rain washes away the smog. But the fire-season knows its glories, too, the darker, wine-read hues. The next part of my Interlude, from Miriam's Iris (Moonrise Press, 2008), was actually inspired by a memory of looking at a different set of mountains, rocks falling apart in the Monument Valley.

IV. (A Monument of Time)

Submerged in the sand of time,
a continent from beyond
sinks in the last sunset.

Shadows move briskly.
Soon, a gentle coat of oblivion
will cover the ridges.

The desert sleeps
devouring life.
Clocks stop.

The rocks are on fire
boiling over
into the evening sky.

Sand rises slowly.
The mountains drown
in silence.

The pastels can be seen in January, our spring. With clouds, like scarves on the hilltops, with fresh greenery of new grass on the slopes, the mountains are ready for a party. I put that last poem on a postcard I printed, with the photo above, for my participation in the 2010 Fourth of July Parade of Sunland-Tujunga. I gave them out to everyone at the parade and still do giveaways from time to time. A cute little trifle, just to make your day a fresher/newer day....

Interlude - Of Bliss

II.

I’m delighted
with newness of this day –
fresh, new grass and
fresh, new leaves and
fresh, new clouds
in fresh, new sky
Washed clean by rainfall,
colored by ever-brighter light
of green and blue,
hope and innocence,
the hues of my love.
Even the mountains wear
their fresh, new dresses
with pleats of ridges and gullies
waiting to be ironed out
by the breath of wind and time.

But the mountains are temperamental, they shake, they burn, they fall apart. Living in their shadow is like living with an elephant in the room, or a giant rhinoceros in the backyard. The danger and beauty are celebrated in my occasional poem for An Award Ceremony for community volunteers who helped with January floods, organized by City Councilman Paul Krekorian. Called three days before the ceremony, I came up with the following poem. I now adapted it to the fire season, for the nature of the danger may change, but the threat remains.

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.


Maja Trochimczyk and Paul Krekorian at the Awards Ceremony, June 2010.

_____________________________

All content, poetry and photos (C) by Maja Trochimczyk, 2010.
Mountain poems were all published in Maja Trochimczyk, Miriam's Iris, or Angels in the Garden, Los Angeles: Moonrise Press, 2008.
Mountain Watch was published in The Voice of the Village, July 2010.