Poetic and Musical Farewell to Endre Dobay, Susan's Bandi

Endre Dobay with Susan Dobay's painting Musicscape

On March 12, 2016, poets, artists, musicians, and friends gathered at the Scenic Drive Gallery in Monrovia for a farewell and memorial event dedicated to Endre Dobay, husband of eminent Hungarian-American artist, Susan Dobay, and co-owner of the Gallery.

The invitation said: "The versatile, talented, kind, compassionate, humble, husband of Susan, father of Vivian and Andrew, and the grandfather of Geoffrey and Mathew has moved to another dimension.
A mechanical engineer, a family man, and a supporter of all art forms which he respected and loved . With his wife artist Susan he was the proprietor of the Scenic Drive Gallery."

Portrait of Andrew by his mother, Susan, print by his father, Endre, with Jean Sudbury's violin

Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

Endre's prints of his wife's works and of the works by Kathabela Wilson were on display along with a selection of exhibition catalogues that he created for Susan. The artist also selected some family photos and those from among her paintings that were Endre's favorites. Guests brought flowers, poems and cards, some handmade, some carefully selected to express their appreciation for the many gifts of Endre, our Bandi.

The poetic and musical afternoon started with Jean Sudbury, violin, and Rick Wilson, Hungarian folk flute, performing a selection of music to set the audience in a nostalgic yet celebratory mood. Rick accompanied the poets throughout the reading, and Jean played more pieces that would have gladdened Endre's heart. Penelope Torribio accompanied herself on a guitar in two songs; Pauli Dutton sang away to the accompaniment of a red ukulele, and poets shared their reflections about this "kindest of men."  Some of the poems are reproduced below, with permission of the poets, to honor the memory of a silent, thoughtful, and kind man, loved by all.

For dear Bandi, a Prelude

youngest boy
middle child of nine
sent to family
for the summer
when I grow up,  he said
“I want to be a guest”

he was the best host
he welcomed us
with his eyes
took my face
in his hands and filled
our glasses with love

I send a thousand noisy kisses
out into the universe
for another hello

Bandi I could  only write a prelude
an overture
to the opera you loved
an opening act of many
I wish to write for you
it is all we can do in this time of ours
our many beginnings--

there is no end to love
to this romantic story
how we are always only starting
to learn our lines
yours to us, ours to you
"we are so fortunate
to have you in our lives!"

~Kath Abela Wilson
your “Katika”

Endre Dobay

by Pauli Dutton

Susan’s mom started it all
when she noticed the young man
she asked him 
you not like my pretty daughter?
why you not ask her to dance?

the handsome college boy
took the young beauty
in his arms 
their waltz began sixty years
of acreativelove filled life

when she turned 19
Endre and Susan married 
daringly the twoleft 
their homeland to walk
across the Hungarian border

with other refugees they 
took a train to Austria
the pair settled in the states
where Endre worked as 
a mechanical engineer

Susan says Endre
could build anything
with her inspiration
they built a home
for their family and the arts

the Scenic Galley
has celebrated sculptors
photographers, writers
painters and musicians
while host Endre poured the wine

Susan was the motor 
that kept Endre running
through every new
creative project
they complemented one other

Susan the artist found
loving support through Endre
photographer/printer
the sound wiz helped her create 
new forms of media

their joint visual
interpretations of music
can now be enjoyed 
by all on youtube
thanks to Endre

Endre we know you continue
to watch over Susan 
as your love still fills the gallery
we hear your echo asking
would you like another glass?

 Bandi and Susan listen to a reading by Just Kibbe, Monrovia, 2012

Bandi

camera suspended from his neck
gentle brown eyes search the room
to catch light and shadows
arrangements of colorful art
and us -- his friends
he had many

by Erika Wilk

Jean Sudbury, Kathabela Wilson, Endre Dobay and Maja Trochimczyk, 2012

The man I did not know

    ~ for Endre Dobay in memoriam

I did not know the boy –
That tall, serious teen, always reading
Books, or fixing bikes of local children

I did not know the man –
What happened?why he left his home 
Who died? … I did not know
The man who fell in love, married, 
had children –  a son and daughter. . . 
All in the new country,  in a new house, 
Nested on the slope of a magnificent mountain 
Where bears wander down the streets
And take baths in neighbors’ swimming pools, 
Where mocking birds, sing away tunes 
Stolen from car alarms and clock chimes, 
And birds sometimes sit quietly in the branches 
Of the old hibiscus outside the kitchen window
Watching him work.

Yes, the charming one – his eyes spoke volumes 
Even if his mouth did not move
Except for that hint of a smile in the corner –
Yes, I knew Susan’s husband
Silent, supportive, quietly amused
By the poets’ antics.

I knew Bandi of talented artist’s hands, 
Deep philosopher’s insights. I remember him
Watching over us, filming dialogues, 
Seeking goodness , beauty, truth –

Now he found it and we lost him for  a bit, 
Until we find our own goodness and beauty
In the everlasting truth – when we join him 
In the light that draws us nearer 
As it drew him into that brilliant column  
Stretching straight up into heaven 
Taking him higher, higher –
Into the constellation of the blessed

© 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk

Bandi and Susan attend my presentation at the Wilsons' salon, December 2011

I also read my poem inspired by Susan's painting "City Whispers" from the "Awakenings" project of Poets on Site. I got a print of that painting made by Bandi and it is on the wall in my house.  The poem with an image of the painting, published in "On Awakenings" book edited by Kathabela Wilson is reproduced in my Easter 2011 post. 

At the end, I read my participatory poem, "Repeat after me" with a revised ending. I reproduced the previous version of the poem on the blog from this spring, from a reading with Beverly M. Collins at Phoenix House.  http://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2016/03/black-history-month-at-phoenix-house.html

Daffodils, tulips, roses and lilac for Bandi and Susan

Almost the last to arrive and the last to read was poet and light-giver Susan Rogers, who wrote out her poem on a card with a drawing of the tree, as strong and solid as Bandi was, an oak or a banyan tree with deep roots in the earth and the branches reaching out to heaven. 

Poem by Susan Rogers, with her drawing of a banyan tree.

Collection of photos of Bandi assembled by Susan Dobay.

For more photographs from the Celebration of Life event visit my Picasa Web Album: 

Endre Dobay Memorial 2016.

Finally, here's a report from the Celebration of Life assembled by 

an artist and musician, Penelope Torribio and published on YouTube:

Poets at Madame Butterfly event at the Scenic Drive Gallery, with Mariko Kitakubo, Photo by Endre Dobay, 2014

Thank you, Bandi! 

Foothills Poetry Festival - Saturday, January 10, 2015 at 3 p.m.

I am honored to represent Polish-American poets at the Foothills Poetry Festival to be held next Saturday, January 10, 2015 at 3 p.m. at the Sunland-Tujunga Public Library, a branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. Organized by American-Argentinian-Ukrainian Poet, Elsa S. Frausto, Sunland-Tujunga's Poet Laureate, the event will bring poetry in original languages as well as in English in several segments dedicated to distinct countries and immigrant experiences.  The participants will include: Teresa Mei Chuc (Vietnam), Mira Mataric (Serbia), Shahe Mankerian (Armenia) and Elsa Frausto (Argentina) and will be held at 7771 Foothill Blvd., Tujunga 91042.

Poets will also read their favorite "native" poets, in both original and English translations. Refreshments will be served.

http://villagepoets.blogspot.com/2014/12/international-poetry-festival-january.html

I have not selected my own poems for the reading, but I think I will read something by Czeslaw Milosz and something by Wislawa Szymborska as both poets have had the good luck of having excellent translators. I'll probably find something either written or translated by Stanislaw Baranczak who died recently. My section may also include a poem or two from the "Slicing the Bread" chapbook recently issued by the Finishing Line Press. I will certainly read the elegy in memory of Basia Gawronska, a great artist and a wonderful person. I recently translated it into Polish so it is a bit fresh, but the memory of Basia, who died at Thanksgiving in 2009 deserves this honor.

Wniebowstąpienie

                Dla Basi Kozieł Gawroński in memoriam (1947-2009)

Jeśli pójdziesz ulicą Oro Vista w stronę gór San Gabriel

I spojrzysz w niebo, pomiędzy czerwieniejącymi

Liścmi jesiennej jabłoni, zobaczysz sokoła jak krąży

Nad spalonym zboczem, czarnym kikutem drzewa.

Wyżej, wyżej – kołuje i lotnia, wznosi się po białej

Drabinie obłoków, mierzy błękitny obszar

Niebiańskiej przestrzeni. Samotnie szuka szczęścia

Ponad całym światem, gdzie sokół rysuje kręgi,

polując na myszy.

Gdyby Basia była tu wraz z nami, naszkicowałaby

Zarys ruchu w swym starym notesie – a obok kształt

Klaczy zbiegającej na dół, po błotnistym zboczu.

Jej grzywa powiewa, gładkie ciało błyszczy

Na tle nagiej ziemi, zdeptanej na miazgę

Wygląda jakby była… jest samą wolnością

Zanim nie zatrzyma jej rdzawy łańcuch płotu.

My też rozmarzeni, toniemy w uniesieniach,
Sekretach tkliwości – niech rośnie w ogrodzie

Między ostatnią sałatą i garstką truskawek.

Półkula wiatru przesuwa się nad koronami

Drzew.  Trzepotanie złocistych trójkatów

Porusza granatowe głębie nieznanego nieba.

Rosną gałęzie ginkgo szerząc radość sprzed stuleci.

Basi nie ma. Czymże jesteśmy

Jeśli nie liścmi wyzłoconymi jesienią,
W ostatnich promieniach, przed nocą fioletu?

Dawno temu, gdy dźwięk wiader z mlekiem

Oznajmiał schyłek dnia w polskiej wsi, na dziadków obejściu

Słyszeliśmy echa pogrzebowych dzwonów

Wołających, płaczących – łkanie aż do nieba.

Basi nie ma. Czarna klacz zatrzymuje się

Zadziwiona, zdyszana. Jej grzywa

Wciąż tańczy walca jak fale przypływu.

Spadają liście ginko i jabłoni.

Kręgi sokoła i lotni spotykają się, rozchodzą

Wysoko nad nami, w bieli. Tam obłoki

Otwierają się dla Basi

Aby mogła wejść ze stertą notesów,

Obrazów, przetykanych srebrno-złotą nitką

Znakiem światła, z lusterkami, które potłukła

I dla nas złożyła, byśmy wreszcie dostrzegli, gdzie –

Tu właśnie – jesteśmy.

 Ascension - A Memorial Poem

                                     Basia Koziel Gawrońska in memoriam

If you go down Oro Vista towards the mountains,

and look up between the crape myrtle’s 

reddish leaves, you’ll see a hawk circling 

above charred slopes, blackened gullies.  

Higher, higher, rising to the white stripes

of clouds that measure the blue expanse,

a hang glider flies, looking for happiness,

like the hawk searching for mice.  

If Basia were with us, she’d sketch

the blur of motion in her notebook,

the horse that ran down the muddy slope,

her mane flowing, body shining against the bare 

soil beaten to a pulp. She looks like, she is,

freedom, until the chain-link fence stops her. 

We, too, cherish glimpses of elation,

affection growing in the garden

between strawberries and sage.  

The air cupola shifts above a gingko tree.

The flutter of yellow triangles moves

indigo depths of the sky. Strong

branches spread the joy of centuries. 

Basia’s gone. What are we,

but the leaves turning gold,

catching the last rays of crimson light?

We dance like fireflies at dusk. 

Long ago, when the clanging

of milk pails announced the waning

of the day in a Polish village,

we heard echoes of funereal bells,

calling, ringing out to heaven. 

Basia’s gone. The black mare stops,

bewildered, panting. Her mane

still waltzes like the waves of the tide. 

The gingko leaves fall. The hawk 

and the glider meet and part high up 

where the clouds open for Basia 

to come in with her sketchbooks, paintings, 

her silvery threads of light, and mirrors 

she broke for us to see where we are.

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

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

The Color Guard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 (c) 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Scarf  (An Assigned Object)

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

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

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

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

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

© 2007 by Maja Trochimczyk

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

On Halloween, All Souls, and All Saints...

Did you decorate your house for Halloween yet? I took out my laughing bats, magic hats, and pumpkins. Yet another year of trying to tame the monster, make the grime and horror go away. I wish to replace the vulgar tastelessness of eyeball soups and skeletons on the lawn with some carnival-style whimsy... I'll be disappointed again, surrounded by plastic atrocities emerging from the closet yet again, as we circle on this merry-go-round of time that accelerates every year. When I started my "Chopin with Cherries" blog in 2010, I wrote about the composer's death, cemeteries and Halloween... Let me start this rant against Halloween, then, with a self-quotation:

  "October in America is filled with the excitement of Halloween. Now, that’s a strange celebration! People dress up as zombies. They scatter eyeballs, skeletons, and torn, bloody limbs around their houses. They convert their gardens into makeshift graveyards… All to scare death away. The spiritual roots of Halloween are in Druidic rituals of the Winter Solstice, a holiday of darkness, marking the shortest day and longest night of the year. What if the night won and the sun never came back? Monsters, ghouls, and horrible, terrifying, dangerous creatures of the dark are supposed to be roaming the world that night, saying “trick or treat” – “bribe me, or I’ll kill you.” 

In a highly commercialized current version of this celebration, a wild party-season culminating on October 31, we conquer our fear of death by dressing up like the dead and dressing our children like cute little ghouls and monsters, to cheat and trick death, pretending we are already dead. There is more to it, of course, beyond the candy giveaway and all-night, carnival parties. To me, this is a day dedicated to fear and rejection of death. We want to live forever. We mock and deny the power of death, by ridiculing it in the most atrocious way possible. People love Halloween. I’m deeply conflicted about it. As a mother, though, I made my share of costumes… 

I remember going to a cemetery on October 31, during my first year in Canada, two months after coming from Poland. It was a culture shock. There was nobody there, the place was abandoned. In the city, stores and yards were full of make-believe tomb-stones, with sculls scattered around and zombies’ hands sticking out of the ground, but nobody went to bring candles and flowers to real graves. In Poland, at this time of the year, we used to visit the grave-sites of our grandparents, great grandparents, or soldiers, or victims of the war. We used to bring candles to these grave-sites and monuments. In the rain, in quickly falling darkness of a late autumn evening, cemeteries and war memorial sites were shrouded by the warm glow of thousands of candles. People wanted to remember their dead, their fore-bearers. They wanted to reflect on the past, think about their own mortality. The All Souls’ Day, October 31, is a melancholy, yet comforting remembrance of our ancestors and a time for reflection on our own place in the dance of generations.

 In Warsaw, where we had no family graves to visit, we went to the monuments of the fallen: the Unknown Soldier, the heroes of the Warsaw Uprising of 1944. (A handful of underground Home Army soldiers held out for 63 days before being defeated by the Germans, while the Allies waited for the city to bleed to death). We walked through the alleys of Powazki, the oldest cemetery in town, visited the graves of famous Poles. We brought lots of candles; children ran around and made sure all the candles were burning. They had fun: played with fire, skipped over puddles, collected dry, colorful leaves. Adults walked with their umbrellas, and said “shh, shhh… be quiet, this is a cemetery, a place of peace and eternal rest.” 


But it is not the disgusting artificial severed limbs, eyeless sockets of plastic skulls that may truly terrify you. The scary stuff happens behind closed doors, in homes that look so idyllic from afar, with their bright porch light and tidy gardens:

The Hour of Darkness

"Get out of my house!!!"

said the man.

"Look at the knife

in my hand!"

the boy answered.

The woman cried

with her heart split open.

The little girl whispered:

"I wish I were a fairy

and could make myself deaf

to not hear you..."

And it was night. 

__________________

Note: The last line is quoted from The Bible, NIV, the Gospel According to St. John: John 13:30.

(c) 1997 by Maja Trochimczyk 

Sometimes the pain that outlasts all others is internal, invisible, untouched: 

Love Horror

I saw you at the opera:

So royal in your splendidness,

you dispensed favors

left and right,

bestowing graces.

What did you see

in me, a Shulamite

dancing darkly

among throngs

of chaste-less virgins?

Love is a horror of distance -

silent scream

for one kind hour 

(c) 2000 by Maja Trochimczyk

And then, of course, out of a broken heart, a broken present, and no future:

Last Wish

Kiss me with the kiss of death

so my lips stop breathing

kiss me with the kiss of Lete

so its waters wash away

my memory

kiss me, please,

so I could go in peace

to the empty fields of Elysium

for a well deserved stroll in the park

of the late graceful

(c) 2003 by Maja Trochimczyk

Sometimes, things happen that you do not want to remember, do not want to forget. April 4, 2000. The day my parents were shot. May 12, 2001, the day my Father died, after a year in and out of the hospital. His last words to me? About a week before his death: "Majusiu, your Dad has become a vampire! I live off other people's blood." And we laughed at this joke about a very serious matter. His spine cells, exhausted by months of malnutrition, stopped producing red blood cells. He lived because he had a blood transfusion every two weeks. Indeed, a vampire.

Then: July 4, 2013, the day my Mother died. I would not believe it was serious, that trip to the hospital (again!), in an ambulance (again!). I had time to get used to to these phone calls from Poland, month after month, year after year, ambulance, hospital, home, convalescence... I have not written any poems in Poland, any about Her death. I'm still in denial. But I wrote this, when they were shot, on the plane back to L.A., returning after 10 days sitting in the hospital, by their bedside in Warsaw:

The Polish Easter

The bullet pierces the lung,

blood spills in darkness:

shortness of breath,

mouth tied with tape

agony in the basement

cold cement floor

How does one live after that?

Does one live?

Without the stomach,

kidneys, intestines and spleen?

Plastic pipes carry out

all kinds of liquid.

The Polish Easter

is a celebration of

overeating. Food is life.

Would Dad ever eat again?

Would Mom ever breathe without gasping?

Honor your mother and father.

I do.

They did not.

(c) 2000 by Maja Trochimczyk

Add caption

Now, both of my parents are gone to the All Souls world.  Where is it? I do not know. What is it? I cannot imagine. It exists, I'm quite certain, as I often feel their presence with me. They both look over my shoulder as I write this, making sure I'm being a good girl. How? Certainly not like that overzealous Guardian Angel in a short story by Slawomir Mrozek; so eager to take care of his charge, a very active boy, he kept hitting and slapping and punishing the youngster for his every move. Unwittingly, the angel caused an adverse reaction. The boy, unable to run out and play with kids without being slapped by his Angel, instead got a chemistry kit, made a bomb, blew up his house, and ran away, followed by the Guardian Angel, limping...

Funeral portraits (taken from coffins), 17th century Polish nobles and noblewomen.
Wilanow Art Gallery, Poland.

All Saints, then. Saints in Heaven. The realm of pure, white satin robes, gold halos, harps hanging on willow branches. Endless boredom. According to Mark Twain, at least. I have not been there yet, only peeked inside a couple of times. Looked and forgot what I saw.  We are not saints. Not yet.

Green shone the wings

of the dove - the Psalm says

with erudite certainty

that I don’t share

touched - as I am -

by an angel

of forgetfulness

and inattention.

______________________________________

Photos (C) 2011-2013 by Maja Trochimczyk

Poetry (c) 1997-2013 by Maja Trochimczyk