New e-book edition of "The Rainy Bread: Poems from Exile" with 30 new poems!

 

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/12jyvn85

ISBN 978-1-945938-01-6

Enlarged edition, April 2021

The Rainy Bread: Poems of Exile, a poetry collection by Maja Trochimczyk has been enlarged by 30 poems and reorganized into six parts. An updated e-book is available. The book now includes 60 poems about forgotten stories of Poles living under the Soviet and German occupation during WWII, especially in the Eastern Borderlands of Kresy. They were killed, deported, imprisoned, or oppressed after the invasion of Poland by Germany on September 1, 1039 and by the invasion by the Soviet Union on September 17, 1939. Some of these brief portraits capture the trauma and resilience, ordeals and miraculous survival stories of the author’s immediate family. Their experiences of displacement, hunger, cold, and poverty during the war are typical of Polish civilians. 

Author's Grandma Maria Wajszczuk, b. Wasiuk (1906-1973)

These fictionalized fact-based memories are coupled with depictions of survival of other Poles deported to Siberia, the Arctic Circle, or Kazakhstan; those left the Soviet Union with the Second Corps of the Polish Army under the command of General Władysław Anders; those who were transported to refugee camps in India or Africa; and ended up in Argentina, Canada, Australia or the U.S.

A monument to Polish civilians shot by Germans during Warsaw Uprising.

The book is a companion to “Slicing the Bread” (2014), with which it shares some poems, including vignettes from the author’s childhood in Warsaw. Organized into six parts - Destinations, Nowhere, Hunger Years, Resilience, There and Back, What Remains, the updated book follows a trajectory of descent into the hell of deportations, imprisonment, hunger, mass murder, and ascent into resilience and survival. The dark rain of sorrow changes into the diamond rain of delight with life.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maja Trochimczyk, Ph.D., is a Polish American poet, music historian, photographer, and author of seven books on music, most recently “Gorecki in Context: Essays on Music” (2017) and “Frédéric Chopin: A Research and Information Guide” (co-edited with William Smialek, rev. ed., 2015). She currently serves as the President of the California State Poetry Society, managing editor of the California Quarterly, and President of the Helena Modjeska Art and Culture Club in Los Angeles, promoting Polish culture in California. Trochimczyk’s nine books of poetry include “Rose Always,” “Miriam’s Iris,” “Slicing the Bread,” “Into Light”, and four anthologies, “Chopin with Cherries” (2010), “Meditations on Divine Names” (2012), “Grateful Conversations: A Poetry Anthology” (2018) and “We Are Here: Village Poets Anthology” (2020). This is her ninth poetry collection.

Nike - Monument to Warsaw Uprising, Warsaw, 2014.

SAMPLE NEW POEMS

≡ PANI BASIA ≡

~ in memoriam Barbara Wysocka, “Irma” soldier in the Warsaw 

   Uprising, prisoner of Stutthof Camp (1927-1997) 

Who was this stranger at Christmas Eve dinners? 

A tall, stern lady who did not smile or talk to children. 

Distinguished. Distant. Too stiff for hugging. 

She looked at us as if from another planet. 

She ate her food slowly, methodically,

relishing each sip of the hot beet soup, 

gingerly picking fishbones out of carp in aspic. 

An aura of loneliness spread out around her. 

Why did Mom take her for vacation to Abu Dhabi,

on an exotic adventure, to see red sands, palms, camels?

The answer waited for decades in packets 

of old letters, medals earned during the war. 

She was “Irma,” a teen liaison for Division Baszta 

in Mokotów. Fought to the end, Warsaw’s fall. 

Imprisoned in the Stutthof Concentration Camp. 

Her whole family perished. All alone.

Never married. Wrapped in her grief 

like a cashmere shawl.

On her vacation in Persian Gulf, she saw 

wobbly camels race – and finally laughed. 

A monument to Polish civilians shot by Germans during Warsaw Uprising

 ≡ THIRTY SIX ≡

The number is thirty-six. Not thirty and 

Not thirty-seven. Thirty-six. That’s how many 

lives they saved, sheltering them in secret, finding

more food, more clothing for the ghetto escapees. 

Doctor Alicja and Mr. Marian Burakowski at your service. 

Unsung heroes, nearly forgotten, except for 

that tree planted in Yad Vashem’ garden in 1983. 

Righteous among the Nations. No. 2480 on the list 

of the bravest people the world has ever known.

Think of the sheer audacity of what they did. 

The number is thirty-six. Not thirty and not thirty-seven. 

How many Jews would you have saved, if your own life, 

and that of all your children, your whole family, were at stake? 

Germans declared a mandatory death sentence, 

for this crime, if caught. 

Do not forget their names, then, Alicja and Marian

Dr. and Mr. Burakowski at your service.

The number is thirty-six.

 

 

≡ THE GREATEST SONG ≡

       ~ for Hanka Ordonówna, a humanitarian star (1902-1950)

Miłość Ci wszystko wybaczy… Love will forgive you everything. . .

The refrain of Poland’s most famous song

echoes through her memory, as she listens 

to the stories of war orphans – covered in

wounds and lice, starved to skeletons, yet

finding time to play. They asked her to sing. 

Ordonka, she used to be in another life, 

on a different timeline, another planet, perhaps – 

its very existence impossible to believe in, here 

on the train with orphans, on the way to a refugee

camp in India – in a coarse military uniform instead 

of silks, pearl strings, shawls, and ostrich feathers.

Champagne for the greatest star! Balls and revues

for the beloved singer of perfect Love! Such charm! 

She found refuge in Beirut, her final stop, Paris 

of the Levant. There was no Poland to return to, after 

Stalin’s tanks rolled in to stay for 45 years. She did not 

make it. She did not feel like wearing silks, feathers, 

pearls – after the orphans that survived their odyssey 

went somewhere else to become someone else – not 

her lost Polish children, smiling with delight as she sang.

Miłość ci wszystko wybaczy… bo miłość, moj miły, to ja!

Love will forgive you everything. . . for Love, my dear, I’m Love!

 

NOTE: Read a summary of her story by Irene Tomaszewski, "The Cabaret Star and the Orphans: From Warsaw to India" Cosmopolitan Review, vol. 5 no.2 (June 2013). http://cosmopolitanreview.com/hanka-ordonowna/

 

≡ A PILOT IN PAKISTAN ≡

~ for pilot Zofia Turowicz (d.1980)

She learned to fly to have wings —

to look down at the rolling waves of mountains, 

the geometry of fields outlined by rivers, 

dotted by lakes. She longed to see where clouds

were born, and where they were going.

Today, she teaches soldiers of a foreign army

how to fly and kill, kill and fly away, unharmed.

They call it the dogfight, as in, dog 

eats dog, the bigger dog,

the faster dog, the dog 

with sharper teeth. 

The dogs of war.

Six years was enough. 

Enough of this war.

She lost her home, her house, her childhood.

She has no future. Alone, wearing blond curls 

and the tight, belted uniform of a pilot

she’s teaching soldiers in a Muslim country 

how to fly to war. 

NOTE: Pilot Zofia Turowicz was the wife of Władysław Józef Marian Turowicz (1908-1980), commander of about 30 Polish pilots that trained the newly formed Pakistani Air Force since 1948. He remained a PAF officer, and became the founder of Pakistani space program. https://www.compasstravelguide.net/curiosities/the-polish-pakistani-air-force/ 

On La Tuna Fire and the End of the World as It Was

dragon eye of the sun

looks at the scorched earth -

wildfire 

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...

http://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2016/12/new-years-gifts-of-poetry-enchantment.html

Sweet Relief by Toti O'Brien and its author.

treasure on my wall

eighteen years in the making - 

sweet relief

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.


(c) 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk
http://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2010/10/in-praise-awe-of-mountains.html

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 --

(C) by Maja Trochimczyk. Published in Into Light, http://www.moonrisepress.com/into-light-by-maja-trochimczyk.html

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