Exhibit on Immigrants at Bolton Hall Museum in Tujunga

An exhibition about notable immigrants to our corner of California is currently on display at Bolton Hall Museum in Tujunga (10110 Commerce Avenue, Tujunga, CA 91042). The Bolton Hall Museum celebrates its Centennial in 2013, and the exhibition is one of the many that have been held there. Fellow poet and exhibition organizer, Marlene Hitt, invited me to send in a photo and a quote and thus, I found my way to a Museum display!  It has been a wonderful adventure, coming to and settling in Sunland.  I love this place, luxuriating in the sun!

For my reflection, I presented the following mini-essay, ending with a quote from "The Music Box" (published in Rose Always: A Court Love Story, 2nd rev. ed., Moonrise Press, 2011).

Why California?
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... 

I came to Los Angeles in 1996, with three advanced degrees and three children, for a job at USC that has since ended, with a husband who has since returned to Canada. Two of my children, Marcin and Anna, moved away, but I’m still here with the youngest, Ian. I made Sunland my home, with a garden of roses and pomegranates overlooking the magical grass-covered mountains. I became the Sixth Poet Laureate of Sunland-Tujunga. 

A citizen since 2009, I rode in three 4^th of July parades, published four books of poetry, organized countless events… A music historian, poet, and nonprofit director, I love writing and taking pictures of flowers, leaves and the sky. 

Like my roses, I’ve flourished in sunlight – I started a small press that issued five books, I published about 200 poems in various journals. I have also created and  maintained blogs for various organizations, such as Village Poets, Moonrise Press, the Modjeska Art and Culture Club (of which I’m president), and the Polish American Historical Association. 

As Sr. Director of Planning at Phoenix House, I love helping people in trouble, because I’ve been there, too, overcoming PTSD and depression. Not having an extended family here means that I have time to write a lot, to share with and inspire my readers.
What else? . . . "My music box plays on. I make up the words/just as I made up this love of clay and gold,/the dust of the earth and starlight –/partly fragile and partly eternal."

_________________________

The Music Box

What the world needs now
 is love, sweet love…

My china music box plays a song
from your childhood.
Under the lid with one pink rose
I keep my sentimental treasures –
the miniature portrait
in a grey enamel frame echoing
the color of your tank top
worn in defiance 
of my sophistication.

The white tulle ribbon – a memento 
from my wedding gown?
It held the ornament up 
on the bough of the Christmas tree 
after that second, numinous summer.

My broken ring, bent not to be worn again,
 with a deep scar from your blunt saw, 
a shape marked by the strength of your fingers. 

It was a moment of liberation –
I don’t have to – anything – any more.

The three little diamonds – 
faith, hope and love – embedded 
in the scratched gold, still shine,
though not as brightly as the forty three 
specks of light surrounding your face.

The missing ring piece hit the ceiling
when it broke off with the pent-up energy 
of unwanted love – the marriage that wasn’t.  
It is still somewhere in the corner
of the coldest room in my house.

What else? 
Three brown leaves from the ash tree 
that grew by itself and died, 
unwelcome.  The Cross of Malta 
waiting to shine on your chest.

*  *  * 

What the world needs now
is light, God’s light. . . 

My music box plays on. I make up the words
just as I made up this love of clay and gold, 
the dust of the earth and starlight –
partly fragile and partly eternal.

www.moonrisepress.com/rosealways.html

On Virtues and Gratitude in Time for Thanksgiving

For my class on Ethics and Values in the Arts that I taught at the Pitchess Detention Center in Castaic, I tried to simplify the centuries of moral teaching into a clear scheme that's easy to visualize and remember. I came up with an idea of focusing on virtues, and selected Four Cardinal Virtues as the core. I enriched this framework with what I called the Four Moral Actions. Below are fragments of my introduction that outline some of these fruitful ideas. I end with a couple of poems on gratitude, that I'm gradually learning every day.

On Cardinal Virtues and Moral Actions

What is a Virtue? Virtues are character traits that help individuals orient their lives towards a greater good. Virtues help people act properly, morally. The word “virtue” stems from a Latin root, “virtus” – which, in turn, comes from the word “vir” – “man.” The dictionary definition brings together several related meanings:

• 1. Moral excellence; goodness; righteousness.
• 2. Conformity of one's life and conduct to moral/ethical principles; uprightness; rectitude.
• 3. A particular moral excellence, like cardinal virtues
• 4. A good or admirable quality or property: the virtue of knowing one's weaknesses.

A traditional list is that of the Seven Contrary Virtues which are opposites of the Seven Deadly Sins:

• Humility – the opposite of Pride
• Kindness – the opposite of Envy
• Abstinence – the opposite of Gluttony
• Chastity – the opposite of Lust
• Patience – the opposite of Anger
• Liberality – the opposite of Greed
• Diligence – the opposite of Sloth

Its focus on the negative, the deadly sins merely mirrored in the positive attributes, has underscored centuries of moral education that centered on avoidance of evil and fear of punishment, instead of pursuit of the greater good for good’s sake. The purpose of virtues is to act more human, to help create and strengthen societal bonds based on love (trust, honesty, fairness) and to help each individual succeed in his or her pursuit of personal happiness.

In the 20th century, a French philosopher, Andre Comte-Sponville wrote a treatise about 18 different virtues, which included all the above Spiritual/Cardinal Virtues and more. This set of virtues appears in the context of his atheistic and humanistic philosophy: Politeness, Fidelity, Prudence, Temperance, Courage, Justice, Generosity, Compassion, Mercy, Gratitude, Humility, Simplicity, Tolerance, Purity, Gentleness, Good Faith, Humor, Love.

 The unusual list includes the “pre-virtue” of politeness with a surprising and the novel virtue of humor. The discussion of these virtues will be focused on their links to underlying values – physical, psychological or spiritual, and their expressions from the values of being useful, through being pleasurable, to being, to being spiritual.

What about the Cardinal Virtues?

They were outlined in the classic antiquity by Aristotle and Plato:

•  Courage (Fortitude), 
• Wisdom (Prudence), 
• Justice, and 
• Moderation (Restraint, Temperance).

These “four cornerstones of the soul” have been taught to generations to create a moral framework for individual lives and create a balance between the excesses of each of these virtues appearing by itself, in isolation. In the four-part ethical framework presented here, the severity of Justice is balanced by the gentleness of Wisdom (Prudence), which, without the urgent sense of fairness could devolve into fear and inaction. The bravado of Courage (Fortitude) is balanced by the meekness of Moderation (Temperance, Restraint), which, without the passion of courage, may result in withdrawal and passivity.

The image of the “cardinal” virtues is related to the “cardinal points” on a map (North-East-South-West), as a compass for moral life. In a graphic representation, the virtues are located at 0, 90, 180, and 270 degrees on the circle, with the heart of an individual in its center. In another image, they form a circle around a central point and connect to one another; thus surrounding and protecting the core of one’s being.
The balancing act of practicing the cardinal virtues requires a focus on the present, on this infinitely small point in time in which we live, constantly moving from the past to the future. It is by paying attention to present actions, thoughts, and emotions, and by seeking the proper balance of justice with wisdom, and courage with moderation, that an individual may act in a virtuous way and may set a course of his/her life towards real happiness.

The four cardinal virtues, practiced in a way that they balance each other and help the individual remain in the center: courage will be tempered by moderation, wisdom will inform justice. The virtues will change the invisible attitude but will be visibly expressed in moral actions. The direction for the cardinal virtues, the “needle of the compass” are the three spiritual virtues: faith (in one’s own goodness and potential on the one hand and in the goodness of the world on the other), hope (in one’s ability to accomplish one’s goals in the future and in the benevolence of others who will be helpful and will share one’s successes and help on the spiritual path) and love (for oneself and others, spreading from within in concentric circles from the nearest kin and closest friends, to all people).

THE CORNERSTONE

Justice: Do what's right, what's fair.

Fortitude:  Keep smiling. Grin and bear.

Temperance: Don't take more than your share.

Prudence: Choose wisely. Think and care.

Find yourself deep within your heart

               In a circle of cardinal virtues

                                  The points of your compass

                                                    YOUR CORNERSTONE.

Once you've mastered the steps, new ones appear:

Faith:   You are not alone . . .
Hope:  And all shall be well . . .
Love:    The very air we breathe

                          WHERE WE ARE. . .

_____________________________________

The poem may be recited by a group of at least three participants -  the colors indicate individual voices and the text in black font and caps is said by the whole group. Try it!

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Virtues in Practice: Moral Actions

In order to be fully effective and surround the individual with a protective circle that will ensure selecting the best option from thousands of possible choices, the Cardinal Virtues should be associated with a mirror framework of four Moral Actions that both modify and express them.

• Compassion (Justice) – I am compassionate, I share pain
• Forgiveness (Courage) – I am forgiving, I let go of pain
• Generosity (Moderation) – I am generous, I share joy
• Gratitude (Wisdom) – I am grateful, I thank for joy

I selected these four Moral Actions from a multitude of possibilities as echoes or reflections of emotions with which they are bound; these are the opposite of such actions that would result from fully giving in to negative emotions.Compassion or co-suffering is an antidote for anger and grief; it helps break the isolation and alienation caused by the negativity of violence (anger) or withdrawal (grief). Forgiveness breaks apart the toxic shame and fear that again, prevent us from integrating ourselves into whole and healthy individuals and connecting to others in a healthy, well-adjusted way. It is, by far, the hardest of all Moral Actions, as it is based on overcoming the consequences of profound traumas, seared in the memory of pain. Generosity reaches out to the others, while Gratitude permeates the person and all the individual actions with a spirit of thankfulness that lights it all up with joy from within.

The Moral Actions, when taken and practiced together, unify a person’s core being around positive, healing attitude that extend from self to others, from an individual self-definition, to the self-in-the-world. Compassion and Generosity breaks the isolation and create communities. Forgiveness and Gratitude have the greatest healing impact internally, when applied to oneself. Practicing these Moral Actions, based within Cardinal Virtues is a transformative act that results in the healing of an individual person while simultaneously healing the world. Through the practice of Virtue, the present moment is permeated with positive Moral Actions.

Justice is truly “fair” when it is based on compassion, defined as shared suffering, “feeling for/with the other,” or “I know your pain.” Courage to forgive is far more powerful than courage to fight, it is far more liberating than courage to merely endure and survive. Forgiveness gives rise to courage, courage to forgiveness. The generosity of sharing joy may be the one difference between a true saint and an ordinary moral person. For the ordinary person, lacking the convictions or the endurance of a saint, generosity is to be tempered by Moderation, all actions made within reason. True Wisdom arises from gratitude: we are deeply thankful for every opportunity to feel, live and share, grateful for every day, every breath. Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) expressed the feeling of universal gratitude in a beautiful maxim: “Two things awe me the most: the starry sky above me and the moral law within me.”

Intertwined with the Cardinal Virtues, the four Moral Actions form yet another protective circle of goodness. Compassion and Generosity are primarily directed outside the circle, towards others whose suffering we understand and with whom we share our gifts. Forgiveness and Gratitude are primarily directed inwardly. We heal ourselves first; we learn to be thankful for our own gifts first. Then we can turn towards the others. The image of oxygen masks falling down on the plane is appropriate here: the adult passengers have to put on, adjust and fasten their own masks first, and only later, while already able to breathe, they should turn to take care of others. We heal ourselves by forgiving ourselves first and by learning to be thankful for the little things in life. Then, we can go on and find a place, mission, or purpose for our future Moral Actions concerning others.

___________________________________

SONG OF GRATITUDE

Love’s gift cannot be given, It waits to be accepted
~ Rabindranath Tagore, “Fireflies”

I’m filled with gratitude. It makes me sleepy.
I’m ready to purr with contentment
like a stray cat that found its pillow.

The warmth of satiation shines
a smile plays in the corner of my mouth,
full of your kisses - the softest kind.

My lungs expand with fresh afternoon breeze
bearing a hint of orange blossoms
Too early for jasmine. I close my eyes.

I live in the moment when our togetherness
slipped from my fingers. I listen
to the monotone chant of the mourning dove.

I watch the ruckus of house sparrows
fighting for a crumb on a cement path
overgrown with weeds, sprouting through crevices.

Life is stronger than stone.

I’m grateful for each breath
filled with loving you. I rest
in this knowledge, this air...

The Good One, the All-Knowing Wisdom
will not deny my prayers. Shameless, insistent,
I’m the dove that refuses to be silent.

This is my song. This is my melody,
My thankfulness, my Amen.

Let it be, God, let him be. 


(c) 2009 by Maja Trochimczyk

_________________________________

A Box of Peaches

You locked your Wisdom in a gilded box
Placed dainty flowers where metal bars
Cross to hold them

You made a window for Compassion
To look out from onto the world

Glowing with the unseen

Would the talisman of the Smiling One

In your pocket save you? Draw luck
To your game of cards?

Let it be, let the ancient words fall

On a carpet of bronze petals on your path
Dappled with tree shadows 

Walk slowly through the magic

Orchard filled with an avalanche of peaches
Ripening in the sunset

Stoop down to pick one, feel its warmth
In your hand, taste the mellow richness
beneath the fuzzy, wrinkled skin

Say to no one in particular
The sun maybe, or the tree, or this late hour – 
Thank you, yes, thank you very much


(c) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk

___________________________________________

NOTE: Photos of pomegranates and Liquid Amber trees in Sunland, November 2012 by Maja Trochimczyk.  The peaches were too early. We ate them in July.

October is a Funny Month...of Timelessness and Lilies

In Canada, October is the month for Thanksgiving, but in China, Cyprus, Croatia, Germany, Nigeria, Portugal, Taiwan it is the time to celebrate national holidays. In America we have the Columbus Day and a whole month to come up with the most outreageous, bloody or scary Halloween costumes...

Global October celebrations also include the birthday of Mahatma Ghandi, Free Thought Day, World Food Day, Apple Day, Spirit Day, Halloween, and All Souls Day, among many others. There is something different to celebrate in each country in this month of harvests and remembrances of death and dying. 

One of my favorite, nostalgic and melancholy celebrations of October is the annual visit to a cemetery. Families visit the graves of their loved ones, bring candles and prayers. Thousands of candles flicker in the rain, wet leaves shuffle under the feet, the air is scented with smoke and memories of days past... people gone... happiness subdued by absence... I must say that I rather liked it, these dark evenings among the ancient crooked tombstones of Poland...

Cemeteries are different under the brilliant California sun that banishes melancholy. But it is good to remember our place in the stream of time, a raging torrent that becomes more violent every day. Death and life, farewells and welcomes. New babies are being born and cherished. Life goes on...  For October, I selected a poem on cosmic time and timelessness as it is reflected in the transience and beauty of our lives. Someone said that the best way to walk it is to keep one feet in time and the other in timelessness...

Timelessness
© 2008 by Maja Trochimczyk

Yes, there is time
Yes, there is weight
of the rocks on the skin
of the earth making
It harder to breathe
for the beast of eons

Yes, there are clouds
Yes, there is air
cut with wispy stripes
of whiteness wishing,
willing itself into being,
into solid forms that
dissolve in the merest
breeze, flee into nothing

Yes, there we are
Yes, matter stays
atoms, prions, electrons
dance in an endless cycle 
of DNA spirals, molecules,
blades of grass and gravel

Yes, there is time
to watch, to catch
the transient beauty
of living in red harmony
blood circling in our veins,
rock dust changing into stars

 

Clouds from Water Lilies by Claude Monet, L'Orangerie, Paris



______________________________________


POETRY UPDATES:

My most recent publications include "The Rite of Passage" that appears in the Epiphany Magazine, Issue 16 (October 2012), accompanied by three photographs of mountains, clouds and roses. The poem celebrated my 2011 vacations in the High Sierras of Calfiornia. I love the clarity and jewel colors of montain lakes!

• Epiphany Magazine, monthly poetry and photography magazine, October 2012 issue - "The Rite of Passage"  

Then, my poem "The Unseen" inspired by teaching arts and ethics in a Los Angeles County Jail, was selected by the online site and print yearbook, Van Gogh's Ear:

• Van Gogh's Ear, poetry journal, October 2012 - "The Unseen"

The first two poems of the cycle "Among the Lilies" - "Water Lily I" and "Water Lily II" (inspired by Claude Monet's paintings at L'Orangerie) were selected by Marie Lecrivain for her section in the annual mammoth Lummox Journal. The next two "Water Lilies" are a fitting follow up and are reprinted below. These poems are my souvenirs from my trip to Paris in October 2011.

• Lummox  Magazine, a poetry anthology published by Lummox Press, ISBN 978-1-929878-38-3
  Perfect bound, Trade Paper, 230 + pages; $30, $25 (includes shipping from the publisher)
  http://www.lummoxpress.com/journal.html

                   Lilies by Claude Monet, L'Orangerie, Paris

Water Lily III

(c) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk

He keeps the colors royal

Vermillion and scarlet

The breeze shifts, scattering the patterns

Cleansing the air

From distant traces of mustard gas 

The breath and the brushstroke are one

He is the wind, moving through the garden

Made to be painted

Fading

                       Lilies by Claude Monet, L'Orangerie, Paris

Water Lily IV

(c) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk

Lily pads float up into indigo

Gathering like birds before winter

Pulled by the gravity of belonging

They fall into the night

Blossoms and cicadas

A nightingale’s song swirls above their sleep

A cricket counts the brushstrokes

Stiff fingers ache

It is good he had the ponds dug out

Life is good

                         Lilies by Claude Monet, L'Orangerie, Paris

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Photo Credits:
Photo of clouds at Eaton Canyon, Pasadena, CA, September 2012 by Maja Trochimczyk
Photos of fragments of Claude Monet's Water Lilies at L'Orangerie in Paris, October 2011, by Maja Trochimczyk

Three Postcards from Paris of Ron Libbrecht

Last October I went to Paris for a week as a guest of the Polish Institute and one of the speakers at the International Conference on Maria Szymanowska.

After coming back I saw Ron Libbrecht's watercolor from Paris and a series of ekphrastic poems was born. Hilda Weiss of Poetry LA recorded them and posted on the site and on YouTube. The poems and the inspirational paintings were also published in a monthly online journal, Quill and Parchment, vol. 100, July 2012.


THREE POSTCARDS FROM PARIS

~ inspired by Ron Libbrecht's watercolors and a trip to Paris




 1. A New View of Pont Neuf, Paris

It is not that I do not want to rest here
On this greenest of grasses
In the shadow of massive branches
Of London plane trees, platane commun,
Maple leaf planes, Platanus hispanica,
It is just that my geography is as confused
As that of the tree – Polish, Canadian
Californian – everything I see
Carries multiple shadows of things remembered
Doppelgänger of memories
Like that park with a sandbox and benches
By the Zoo in Warsaw where we ate white clouds
Of candy-floss under the poplars
Discussing the shape of spots on the neck
Of the giraffe and hippopotamus’s awful teeth



2. The Tower and the Crane

After I filled my eyes with the splendor
Of stained glass rainbows at La Sainte Chapelle
An orgy of royal fleur-de-lis
With cranes and ravens carved into the floor
Medieval creatures waiting for a sign
To spread their wings in flight

Exhausted by history
I looked for a bench not smelling of urine
Under the sky’s pure crystal
Watercolor birds from the pages of Audubon
Stopped me at a bouquiniste’s stand
Near Quai Voltaire

Should I get the crane for a blessing of long life?
Or a kingfisher? Hopkins said they “catch fire,
Dragonflies draw flame”

To each their own – I choose a poster
With the flags and balloons
Of the 1889 World Fair
They billow and float around the edifice
Of stainless steel, Eiffel's glory

I know, I know – the stone carvings
Of beaks, claws, and beady eyes
Will outlive me and my paper Tower

3. Paris, October
 
On the way back
To the Institute Polonais
Not far from the twisted flames
Where Princess Diana died
In the tunnels under Pont d’Alma
I walk by a maple and a young oak
Encircled by wrought-iron fence
An oasis of gold and bronze
Among the streets, cars, metal rivers
Of the 16-eme Arrondissement

Sales are brisk at Chanel and Versace
During the Paris Fashion Week
Charcoal and diamonds are in style
The black-clad models look indifferent
Not one of them dressed
In the splendor of lilies
The richness of autumn leaves

I wonder

Sheltered by sunlight,
We find refuge from cosmic wind
And the gnashing of teeth
In the darkness outside
___________________________________________

Paintings by Ron Libbrecht, copied by permission.
YouTube Reading by Poetry LA: Maja Trochimczyk at Bolton Hall, February 2012

Publication: Quill and Parchment, vol. 100, July 2012

Midsummer Lessons from Mars and Lascaux

 It is never too late to learn something new. Two bits of scientific knowledge have recently captured my attention. First, a new method of dating ancient artifacts with radioactive isotopes resulted in rewriting the chronology of Paleolithic art: apparently, the astounding frescoes of bisons and horses in the caves of Lascaux, France, were not painted 20,000 years ago by our direct ancestors, homo sapiens, but, instead, were created over 43,000 years ago when Europe was inhabited by the Neanderthals. Therefore, we have to change our preconceived notion of the hairy Neanderthals as ape-like primitive brutes. What a discovery!

Second, the inventive laboratory-on-wheels Curiosity landed on Mars without a glitch and began sending back to Earth photographs of its rocky surroundings. I had seen a life-size model of the probe during the annual open house at JPL: with legs taller than me and two wheels on each leg, this futuristic vehicle was able to drive in any direction, over piles of rocks under one leg and smooth sand under another. On a Sunday night in August I was a guest at JPL’s California control station watching the Curiosity landing – or, rather, watching rows of engineers in blue shirts doing something important and intently staring at their screens. We enjoyed lectured lectures by JPL staff between computer animations of Martian landscapes traversed by the spacecraft, while waiting for the numbers on a small screen on the side to confirm that all engines fired, the silicone parachute deployed, all temperature sensors reported normal data, etc. Not only was it a “blind” landing on instruments alone: the landing was actually operated by the machines pre-programmed to follow a certain course of action.

The radio signal, traveling at the speed of light, takes nearly 15 minutes to come to Earth from Mars. Our screens reported each stage of the action 15 minutes after it already happened! What a feat of human ingenuity! But this 15-minute delay also tells us how important it is to live in the present, here on Earth (Memento Vitae). We are stuck here, for now. It is really too far to go somewhere else.


________________________________________________

A poem of mine, "Memento Vitae" was published in Serbian translation in the largest daily paper; French, Spanish and Chinese versions are in the works… Thanks to my friend Dr. Mira Mataric, who translated five of my poems for a Serbian literary journal, I now have a publication in the same alphabet (though not language) than my Belorussian grandparents used. The publication in the daily paper was quite a surprise. I hope we all cherish our lives 43,000 years after the Neanderthals first decorated their caves. How? Read my poem "A Lesson for my Daughter!" But first comes a reflection from the beach...

    Walking on Seashells

broken pieces of fish bones
lie scattered by the tide
where sandpipers feed

hermit crabs move into empty shells
whose former inmates
lost their future, devoured

the ocean of death surrounds us

ants troop in and out of the eye
of the beetle that lies
in the middle of my path

crushed sea shells paint the beach
bone-white – prickly sand
slowly changes into rock

fossils capture cruel snapshots
of transient past

unperturbed, we march on,
treading on traces of old tragedies

insects die first, yet outlive us
we do not mind their deaths
 
with a gaze fixed above,
we ignore countless incidents
of random murders, as we walk into
the gaping mouth of the Behemoth

 Memento Vitae 

Let's talk about dying.
The gasp of last breath.
The end. Or maybe not,
We don't know.
Let's talk about the last day.
What would you do
if you knew?
Whom would you love?
Would you find your dearest,
most mysterious love?
Or would you just stay
in the circle of your own?
Would you rob, steal
or insult anyone?
Would you cry?
Burn your papers?
If the fabric of your future
shrank to one day,
or maybe just an hour?

Let's talk about living, then.
The next breath,
that will take you
to the next minute,
the next heartbeat.

Just about – now.

© 2008 by Maja Trochimczyk
  

A Lesson for My Daughter 

After a ruby-colored glass of Merlot
I told my daughter the secret of the Universe.
I solved it at noon, by the river.

Questions do not matter.
The right answer to life is: "Yes."
If you build a circle of "Yes" around you,
Affirming the essence of beauty,
You'll be safe.

If you say "I love you" to everyone
(Very quietly so they can't hear, but you know),
You'll walk in a sphere of gladness
No insult or curse may pierce.

You'll be whole and holy:
Living deeply where love blossoms,
Laughter bubbles, and joy overflows.


© 2006 by Maja Trochimczyk      __________________________________________

NOTE: Photos from San Francisco and Los Angeles, (C) 2012 by Maja Trochimczyk

Harvesting Pears and Poems

The dahlias are in full bloom. It is time to eat fruit fresh off the trees. Time to walk in the orchard, pick apricots and make smooth, orange, tangy and fragrant apricot jam. Time to climb up the ladder and pick the plums, split in half by a sudden rain shower. You can eat them straight off the branches, or pick and drop in the box to make plum preserves for filling in donuts, or to bake a plum cake, or, for the gourmet cooks, among us, to pickle them in vinegar with a touch of cinnamon and cloves.

Where is such succulent and luxurious fruit? On the trees? Somewhere, perhaps, but not very often on the shelves of our local supermarkets. The fruit made for mass production, distribution and transport long-distance is too often tasteless, dry and wooden. It is beautiful on the outside, but completely unappealing on the inside. Also: hard, very, very hard. To survive the thousands of miles on the road, of course, taste be damned...

I remember the pear tree in my grandma’s yard. How soft and fragrant and juicy were those pears! Called, incongruously "klapsy" ("claps"). The ones I buy now are often so hard, they are difficult to cut with a knife, let alone bite! Ah, the dangers of genetic engineering! Was all this technological progress supposed to help us make the world a better place, or just make life easier (and the profit margins greater) for those who sell fruit in "bulk"? What are the GM engineers doing to our fruit? Where are the pears and peaches of yesteryear?

A Pear in a Tree

In a fruit orchard
By the sandy path
I climbed a pear tree
To watch the road
Melt into the horizon

I ate a golden pear
Juice stained my dress
My day dream of white
softness cut short
by the buzzing of wasps

They, too, longed for
The fruity sweetness
Of warm summer pears
They, too, dreamed
Of endless sunlight.

(c) 2012 by Maja Trochimczyk


____________________________________


With lots and lots to do, I have not even noticed that more than a month passed since my last post here. There are some news and updates from the poetry front:

My Three Postcards from Paris was just published in the July issue of Quill and Parchment: www.quillandparchment.com.

 To read you need the username (july) and the password (salmon). This is a special issue with ekphrastic poetry, inspire by artwork. My three poems divide their inspiration between the real Paris I visited in October 2011 and the painted Paris from the lovely watercolors of Ron Liebrecht.

The journal's editor, Sharmagne Leland St. John reprinted the watercolors not only for my poems, but also throughout the journal. These "snapshots" of various European landmarks are seen with a masterly eye towards detail and in a novel perspective. In each of the images, there is something special to notice in passing.
_________________________+++____________

The "Meditations on Divine Names" anthology has finally been published. In a divided world, this volume brings together poets of diverse spiritual orientations and religious traditions. Their poetry is inspired, luminous. I hope that the readers will enjoy this group effort.

The book is available on lulu and through other booksellers in print format. The digital edition will take a while to prepare: www.moonrisepress.com/divine.html.

The first reading from the new anthology is scheduled for Sunday, July 22, 2012, at 4:30 p.m. at Bolton Hall Museum in Tujunga: 10110 Commerce Avenue, Tujunga, California.

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Convergence

Little by little, we shall see the universal horror unbend, and then smile upon us, and then take us in its more human arms.

          ~ Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, The Divine Milieu, III: 3 B

everyone is singing around me

everyone

awash in their voices

I stand in the Melbourne cathedral

English vespers, communion

my heart races — I am still

I am taken — the bread circle

becomes my body — I am the bread

white manna surrounds the world

in a blizzard — dancing, falling

I fly with the spirit-wind

encircle the globe

I multiply like loaves and fishes

in the desert

I am eaten, nourish millions

set them on fire

snowing manna

droplets of light

sparks of cosmic

flames everywhere

 

blur of velocity

heights and depths

swirling whiteness

streams ablaze

on terraced rice-paddies

in musty stone cathedrals

                                                                      

in old wooden churches

shining like amber at dusk

serenity ascends

into translucence

I’m the blanket of light

that covers the world

I’m the song

love sings

(c) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk
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I saw poems on a sidewalk in New York, London, and now also Berkeley, California.

Here are two found poems I liked in Berkeley:

The Old Towns in Warsaw, Krakow, Gdansk...

Returns, in thought or reality, to the landscapes of childhood, constitute an important poetic inspiration. I had a chance to re-visits the landscapes of my youth during the travel to Poland in May and June 2012. It was a sentimental travel back to my roots and more than a few of my "favorite things."

First, Warsaw: this is where it all began. The house I spent my childhood in is gone, demolished to make room for the widening of the street of Powstancow Slaskich. The fields on the other side of the street have been turned into a huge "osiedle" (subdivision) with thousands of inhabitants in ugly apartment blocks. There is a massive signboard in the exact spot where our house once stood and the cherry tree once grew. The little street, "alejka" is still there, lined with yellow iris of our neighbors.

My childhood is gone, of course, but it was a strange feeling to see its material traces erased. I asked a high-school friend to drive me through the narrow streets of Osiedle Przyjazn, where the faculty of the Warsaw Polytechnical University used to live after the workers who built the Palace of Culture had returned to the Soviet Union. Quite a few houses still stand, the streets are lined with maple trees, I remember walking on the curb, picking up the yellow leaves...

My favorite part of Warsaw, the Old Town is still there, though - "still" is a wrong word here, since it was completely destroyed after the Warsaw Uprising and rebuild after the war. The enormous effort of reconstruction of downtown Warsaw ended only with the reopening of the Royal Castle in the early 1980s. I was there before that. I remember the last ruined wall standing with just one window at the top, in the sea of ruins. I used to go to a music school right there and looked up to and through that window at the night sky, while waiting for a tram to take me home. The trams are there, too, painted red and white. It was hard, and still is, to get used to the red square building of the old/new Royal Palace. It still strikes me as something that does not quite belong where it stands, where it once stood. It was gone for just thirty years, but I lived with that gap, and now it is there again, an apparition from before my time.

Filled with tourists and school groups of kids who jump into the puddles the Old Town in Warsaw is very much alive. It is also very lively and completely swarming with schoolkids in Krakow, where I went to a conference on emigration at the Jagiellonian University. In contrast to Warsaw, this Old Town is completely "old" - all buildings, churches, and lecture halls of the university where we held our sessions are real and ancient, though many have recently been restored and repainted. The city is lovely at all hours of day and night, marked by the trumpet call from the tower of Kosciol Mariacki, to the four corners of the world. The "hejnal" is interrupted in the place where the original melody was cut short by an arrow from a Tartar invader, back in the 12th century. History runs deep there - and it suffuses the city and its inhabitants with the warm glow of benevolence. Somehow, it seems, there are more friendly folk, willing to go out of their way to help everyone, in Krakow than in any other city on the planet. Maybe walking through these streets mellows their spirit?

Finally, Gdansk. I travel there to a conference at the University of Gdansk, East and Central Europe in Exile: Patterns of Transatlantic Migration, organized by a large group of partners, headed by the indefatigable Dr. Anna Mazurkiewicz. I'm to speak about exiled composers, but before that happens, I revisit the sites of my own exile and those of my family. The residents are justifiably proud of the recently completed restoration efforts that transformed the Old Town of this Hanseatic sea-bound city, into a real gem filled with amber necklaces and artwork. After my poetry reading on "Aliens in California" (illustrated with photographs and artwork of my California friends) and before the conference begins, I walk through the narrow, streets lined with peaked houses all decorated and colorful. It is much more beautiful than I remember from my childhood at my aunt's home. At that time, in late 1960s and early 1970s, large swaths of the Old Town were still in ruins, only the main street and a couple of side streets were restored, while across the Moltawa river you could see the empty holes of the window, roofless brick walls. It was a scary place then, with so many areas barren, a real wound of the war. But it is completely different now...

My mother's aunt, Jadwiga Hordziejewska and her uncle, Dominik, lived there, after forced resettlement from their estate in what is now Belarus and used to be Soviet Union, near the lake of Switez, and Mickiewicz's hometown of Nowogrodek. They lost everything in that move, everything except for the one cow my uncle took with him to Oliwa. They used to walk through the parks and streets of the city for many years, an old gentleman in his top hat and the prize-winning Holstein black and white cow... He refused to speak to anyone, Ciocia Jadzia worked to support the family, while her husband grieved, frozen in the past, unable to accept the present.

The builders of these old towns, and those who restored them to their colorful and welcoming charm, tell us that we should cherish the past, though never forget what pain was wrought upon us.

Thus, we should always cherish the little flower of "niezapominajka" - forget-me-not. In an old children's verse it is "growing at a stream, looking at me with its blue eyes, and whispering modestly: "do not forget me."

We should not forget what made us who we are. I talked about remembering and being either petrified by grief, loss and guilt, or just remembering the past moments, as beads on an necklace. I even wrote about that lamp I photographed in Jelonki, Warsaw, with the snowflakes twirling in its yellow glow. This poem first published in Miriam's Iris is a suitable tribute to a travel back in time and into the future of being an emigre in California. On the occasion of this long, sentimental trip through my favorite landscapes, I decided to reproduce it for my readers.

Prelude - Water Charms

I.

The hummingbird builds its nest.
Its thin beak – the stem
of a multicolored jewel
sparkling in the sun
(a copy of its own similitude) –
holds the glistening body aflutter.

Rose bushes wear diamonds,
well-polished – their colors change
with the breeze
like the bird’s shiny feathers.

My Californian garden
tries to seduce me
with precious necklaces
and melliferous strains
from the mocking bird
hovering above
the scent of gardenias.

“All right” – I say –
“Don’t play games with me.
I’ve seen it all before.”

II.

Pearls scattered on the meadow
tremble on the blades of grass,
hide in the hearts of clover.

The sun shines straight through their ovals,
translucent, in a bright shade of green.
Stalks bend under their glassy weight.

Tempted by curiosity,
I destroy their perfect balance,
depriving the world
of its well-deserved splendor.

The droplets fall
to the ground and disappear.
How shall I ever be forgiven?
My wickedness – unthinkable.

III.

Dead leaves seek shelter
under thin panes of glass.
Ice covers pools of rainwater.

The stillness mocks past intimacy
when noisy reds, yellows, and browns
flew up from under my feet
in an autumn park
of maples and poplars.

I changed the future of the world
with one step of my boot:
the pane cracked,
the air bubbles shifted,
a the harmony was gone.

With glee I crushed the worlds
that did not need me.

I shudder when I look back –
a trail of footsteps
filled with muddy water,
dirt splattered on the geometry of ice.

IV.

The magic of white butterflies
twirling in the glow of street lamps
makes me dizzy. The black sky turns.
Bright spots move faster still.

I’m afraid. They chase me –
larger – whiter – denser
stars, monsters, snowflakes?
My scarlet fever began that night. V.

Winter morning reveals its treasures.
Leaves, cones, twigs, tree-trunks,
even pebbles on my path
wear bristling coats of crystal ice.

The pearl-grey sky is a bride’s dress,
waiting to burst open with new life.

The clouds settle on their beds.
Houses, bushes, roofs, fences,
dress in white muffs,
scarves and blankets.

The fence boards,
stiff like British soldiers,
present puffy hats to the Queen.

I admit it. I cut their heads off
with my red-gloved hand,
leaving behind a line
of headless corpses –
oh, silent horror!

VI.

The damage that cannot be undone –
melting the universe of beauty
with one breath
that changed a snowflake
into a dirty spot on my glove.

Slowly walking into
the immaculate field of whiteness,
I scarred the snow’s pristine expanse
with clumsy footmarks.

VII.

Again: plunging into
the smooth expanse of a lake,
I broke its sleepy obsession
with mirroring the evening sky.

I paid for my guilt with exile –
a foreign country, a borrowed name.

Crystals do not charm me in the desert
where Joshua trees parody my gestures
of praying for snowflakes
by stretching their twisted limbs
into the purple sky.

No hope for maki, chabry, and rumianki.
My childhood flowers
won’t be found on the meadow
painted yellow by the spring
across the barren slope
I see from my kitchen window.

VIII.

I’ve dreamed of being happy
in the sweet impossible,
with Italian cypresses, ice plants,
and a white fence around my house.

But my memories trap me.
Only the hummingbird
floats around, twitching its tail
like a miniature goldfish.

Maki – wild, red poppies (Papaver rhoeas); chabry – blue Centaurea cyanus, and rumianki – white chamomile daisies, grow in the meadows and fields of Poland and throughout central Europe.

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And here's my bouquet of "niezapominajki" from the Royal Baths Palace at Lazienki Krolewskie. Do not forget me, or so they say...