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.

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

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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