The Summer of Editing Ends with the Butterfly and Edgar Allan Poet

My poetry had to take second place to my music history passions. I finally agreed to edit the second version of William Smialek's Chopin - A Research and Information Guide, first published by Routledge in 1999 and by now the fourth most popular book on Chopin in the world. The trouble is that Chopin research has grown exponentially since that time, so it is crucial to keep it up to date. This is why for the last two months, I wrote nothing but book records, with ISBNs,  ML signatures, page numbers, contents, and descriptions for over 1000 books and articles about Chopin. Fun! This explains my long absence from this page.

POETS ON SITE PRESENT SUSAN DOBAY'S MADAME BUTTERFLY PROJECT

I had fun with poetry, too. The anthology-in-progress by Poets on Site dedicated to Susan Dobay's Madame Butterfly project has resulted in a wonderful event last week. Japanese poet Mariko Kitakubo graced the halls with the poetry in Japanese and English. Other poets read their work published in a chapbook "Madame Butterfly" edited by indefatigable Kathabela Wilson.

The Scenic Drive Gallery in Monrovia was the site of this artistic feast on September 13, 2014, and it was not only decorated with the amazing art of Susan Dobay, inspired by Puccini's opera Madame Butterfly, but also allowed us to watch her Visual Interpretations of Music, inspired by Butterfly.

You can watch it here (if it works), if not go to YouTube:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-IHDZsLzdpA




The artwork was previously on display in a solo show by Dobay at the Shumei Center in Pasadena, but the airy interior of the gallery with its white walls and diagonal shafts of sunlight served it very well, indeed. Our group included Rick Wilson who accompanied the poets on Japanese shakuhachi and Kathabela Wilson with Mariko Kitakubo played Japanese percussion. It was a truly inspired and inspiring reading.  A great chain of inspiration: story - music - opera - artwork - visual interpretation of the art - poetry - performance...

AN ART-INSPIRED ANTHOLOGY, EDGAR ALLAN POET NO. 2

As if one amazing poetry event was not enough, I got a notice from Editor Apryl Skiles that she finished the work on the online free version of the second Edgar Allan Poet Anthology. I'm honored to have a poem about two paintings by Vincent Van Gogh in this astounding volume ("The Alchemist Tree in Winter"). You will love it even more, as you will be turning the pages of this amazing treat!

http://edgarallanpoet.com/Edgar_Allan_Poet_2.html

And here's the Editor's Introduction and the List of Poets.  What a great artistic community!

INTRODUCTION

Edgar Allan Poe was an American author, literary critic, storyteller, and poet who left this realm October 07, 1849. Since his tragic and mysterious demise this literary recluse has become an iconic historical figure. Is this because his writing was so remarkable or because the idea of Poe and what he presented to readers is that of intrigue and mystery, or a touch of both?

Many readers may say that his storytelling far exceeds the merit of his poetry. Those who are widely familiar with his work would consider that a fair argument. Those less familiar with his extensive collection of work may “Quoth the Raven, Nevermore…”, but then there are poems such as “Alone”, written with such timbre and cadence they become a songful hypnotic.

Literature has evolved with its readers, and poetry in particular has swayed from traditional meter, and rhyme, towards a more contemporary free-verse or prose to a great degree. However, the world seems to be gravitating toward a new era, an era of poetic renaissance.

It is the intention of the Editor to carry on the celebration of literature, and art as a whole. Poetry exists in all creative mediums, it is the atom of all art. It is the very foundation of inspiration, whether derived from words, images, or music. Once this realization is presented in any form, all things are possible.

The literature and art contained within this collective are chosen to present to the reader a wide array of voices and visions based on the themes of music, art, and philosophy. Sincere appreciation is extended to Colleen McLaughlin for the beautiful painting “Cello, my Love”, which truly pulls together these themes with the very emotive expression of the muse and the bold, melodic color palette.

In addition, this collection includes poetry, prose, short fiction, and artwork by artists, and writers from all edges of the world. While this collection as a whole is one created in heart-fire, it would not be complete without sincere gratitude to the following individuals: Alexis Fancher, Angel Uriel Perales,Barbara H. Moore, Danny Baker, David Imapoet McIntire, E. L. Elazar Larry Freifeld, Hank Beukema, JR Phillips, Lois Michal Unger Freifeld, Marie Lecrivain, Martin Willitts Jr., Rick Stepp-Bolling, Chicory Poetry, and never lastly, Will Crawford.

Please visit www.EdgarAllanPoet.com for more on these and other prolific contemporaries.

Alexis Fancher
adrian ernesto C E P E D A
angela consolo M A N K I E W I C Z
angel uriel P E R A L E S
anne T A M M E L
annette marie H Y D E R
april michelle B R A T T E N
b.j. B U C K L E Y
barbara h. M O O R E
bryan S T O R Y
carl S C H A R W A T H
carolyn Z I E L
catfish M C D A R I S
cindy W E I N S T E I N
colleen M C L A U G H L I N
cristina U M P F E N B A C H - S M Y T H
daniel n. F L A N A G A N
danny B A K E R
david f. M A R S E E
david M C I N T I R E
debbie L E E
diane D E H L E R
e.l. F R E I F E L D
eli S P I VAK O V S K Y
emily F E R N A N D E Z
faith M I N G U S
felix A L V A R E Z
francesca C A S T A Ñ O
gabor g. G Y U K I C S
gordon H I L G E R S
heidi D E N K E R S
hélène C A R D O N A
j.r. P H I L L I P S
j.t. W I L L I A M S
jan S T E C K E L
janet S N E L L
jesse M I N K E R T
jonathan T A Y L O R
joseph S A L E
judith S K I L L M A N
kevin m. H I B S H M A N
leanne H U N T
leila a. F O R T I E R
lois michal U N G E R
lynn B R O N S T E I N
maja T R O C H I M C Z Y K
marian W E B B
marie L E C R I V A I N
melissa S T U D D A R D
micheál Ó C O I N N
michael wayne H O L L A N D
michael F O L D E S
raquel R E Y E S – L O P E Z
rich F O L L E T T
rick S T E P P – B O L L I N G
rizwan saeed A H M E D
scott c. K A E S T N E R
steven H A R T M A N
susan m. B O T I C H
terrence S Y K E S
thomas K E N T
tomás Ó C Á R T H A I G H
tom P E S C A T O R E
tony M A G I S T R A L E
william C R A W F O R D

Immigration Poetry on KPFK Website and More on Slicing the Bread

KPFK, Pacifica Radio, included my "Ode of the Lost" in their Immigration Poetry Series. Conceived by Marlene Bond, with editorial assistance by Lois P. Jones, the series has featured a diverse range of poets.

MAJA TROCHIMCZYK: An Ode of the Lost
MARIA ELENA BOEKEMEYER: My Heart in Handcuffs
TERESA MEI CHUC: Immigration
SARAH THURSDAY: Murietta

Lois P. Jones thus introduced my poem - which is posted as a recording and text on KPFK website:

The poet, Maja Trochimczyk asks: "Are not all journeys one way?"

In this reflection on Polish exile "how far is too far for the lost country to become but a dream of ancient kings..."

http://poetscafe.podomatic.com/entry/2014-07-19T11_34_20-07_00

We hope you are enjoying this series. Please share freely and come join us at 

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Poets-Cafe-Fan-Page-KPFK-Radio-Los-Angeles-907-fm/148382908556552?ref=hl&focus_composer=true&ref_type=bookmark

"SLICING THE BREAD" STARTED ITS TREK TOWARDS THE FINISHING LINE 

If all goes well, the Finishing Line Press will publish my chapbook, "Slicing the Bread" on October 25, 2014.  This book can be ordered now and will be printed and shipped in October. The limited edition’s pre-publication sales will determine the press run, so please reserve your copy now. So far 23 poets and friends have purchased their copy. I need to find 32 more poets to do the same...

The books cost $14 each plus $2.99 for shipping for the first book in a package and $1.99 for each additional book. You can order your copy of Slicing the Bread on Finishing Line Press website at www.finishinglinepress.com (look for new releases). Read more about this book, highly praised by poets Lois P. Jones, Georgia Jones Davis, John Z. Guzlowski, Sharon Chmielarz, and Linda Nemec Foster,  on the previous issue of this blog:

http://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2014/07/finishing-line-press-to-publish-slicing.html

Finishing Line Press to Publish "Slicing the Bread" by Maja Trochimczyk

Slicing the Bread: Finishing Line Press Site

Slicing the Bread, Children’s Survival Manual in 25 Poems by Maja Trochimczyk will be published by Finishing Line Press on October 25, 2014. This third poetry book by Maja Trochimczyk can be ordered now and will be printed and shipped in October. The limited edition’s pre-publication sales will determine the press run, so please reserve your copy now. The books cost $14 each plus $2.99 for shipping for the first book in a package and $1.99 for each additional book. You can order your copy of Slicing the Bread on Finishing Line Press website at www.finishinglinepress.com.

Cobblestones in the Old Town, Warsaw, rebuilt after the war. 

This unique poetry collection revisits the dark days of World War II and the post-war occupation of Poland by the Soviet Union that “liberated” the country from one foreign oppression to replace it with another. The point of view is that of children, raised by survivors, scarred by war, wary of politics. Children experienced the hunger and cold, witnessed the killings, saw the darkening blood spilled on the snow and hands stretching from locked boxcar windows. Some heard the voices of murdered Jews like “bees in the breeze,” others learned never to throw any food away, because “war is hunger.” The poems, each inspired by a single object giving rise to memories like Proust’s madeleine (a spoon, a coat, the smell of incense) are divided into three sections, starting with snapshots of World War II in the Polish Borderlands (Kresy) and central Poland. Reflections on the Germans’ brutal killing Jews and Poles are followed by insights into the way the long shadow of THE war darkened a childhood spent behind the Iron Curtain.

Historical cobblestone and tram tracks on Chlodna Street, Warsaw.

 For poet Georgia Jones Davis, this book, “brings the experience of war into shocking, immediate focus” through Trochimczyk’s use of “her weapon: Language at its most precise and lyrical, understated and piercingly visual.” According to Pulitzer-Prize nominated poet John Guzlowski, Maja’s “poems about what the Poles suffered both during World War II and The Cold War afterwards are written with the clarity of truth and the fullness of poetry… Here are the stories of how the people she loved experienced hunger and suffering and terror so strong that it defined them and taught her, and teach us, the meaning of family.” The Tieferet Prize winner and Poets-Café host Lois P. Jones points out that “Maja brings the Warsaw of her youth and that of her ancestors into vivid and heartbreaking detail. These are words that will move you to appreciate the simple privileges and necessities of life. Slicing the Bread is a feast in our universal and ever present famine.” As Jones wisely observes “It is the duty of the poet to convey story, but it is the art of the poet who can transform our often cruel and brutal history and affect forever, the way we look and listen to the world.”

"Place sanctified with the blood of Poles who died for the freedom of their homeland" - marker of a 1944 massacre in the district of Wola.

Maja Trochimczyk observes in the preface, “This set of 25 non-fiction poems is a testimonial and a monument to untold suffering, witnessed and experienced by non-Jewish Poles during the war, from the hands of Germans and Soviets, and after the war, from the oppressive “socialist” regime… If six million Jews and three million non-Jewish Poles were killed by Germans in Poland, don’t they each deserve at least one poem, one story? If I were born in Warsaw, a city that lost 700,000 of its inhabitants, shouldn’t I at least try to remember some of them?”

Marker of the Ghetto Wall, 1940-1943 on Chlodna St. in Warsaw.

ABOUT "SLICING THE BREAD"

Faulkner said the poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the pillars which helps him endure and prevail. It is the duty of the poet to convey story, but it is the art of the poet who can transform our often cruel and brutal history and affect forever, the way we look and listen to the world. In a poem called “Family Stories,” Maja speaks of Nurse Jolanta who carried a Jewish baby out of the Warsaw Ghetto in a dark, starless coat. Here, the loss of the world is suddenly condensed to a single image. Maja brings the Warsaw of her youth and that of her ancestors into vivid and heartbreaking detail. These are words that will move you to appreciate the simple privileges and necessities of life. Slicing the Bread is a feast in our universal and ever present famine.
          ~ Lois P. Jones, Poetry Editor Kyoto Journal, Host of Pacifica Radio's "Poets Cafe," winner of the 2012 Tiferet Prize for Poetry

Marker of the Ghetto Wall (1940-1943) in Park Krasinskich, Warsaw.

Maja Trochimczyk’s poems about what the Poles suffered both during World War II and The Cold War afterwards are written with the clarity of truth and the fullness of poetry. If you feel that you have heard all there is to hear about those troubled times, you will learn in this book that you haven’t. Her poetic mixing of family narrative and the memories of other survivors feels like the essential stories our own parents told us when they wanted us to know that there were experiences that we must never forget. Here are the stories of how the people she loved experienced hunger and suffering and terror so strong that it defined them and taught her, and teach us, the meaning of family.
            ~ Dr. John Z. Guzlowski, Professor Emeritus, Eastern Illinois University, Pulitzer-Prize-nominated author of Lightning and Ashes about his parents’ experiences in Nazi Germany

"Place sanctified with the blood of Poles who died for the freedom of homeland" - marker of a massacre of August 5, 1944 at the wall of the Orthodox Cemetery, Wolska St.

There are poems that we have to write: Poems of witness that grow out of the fading signals of our histories -- out of the "screams" lost in a "hum of bees"; the stories carried in the everyday weather circling this distressed planet. Maja Trochimczyk's new collection of poems, "Slicing the Bread," brings the experience of war into shocking, immediate focus. Her weapon: Language at its most precise and lyrical, understated and piercingly visual. In stanzas as delicate as a Chopin prelude, we inhabit the terrifying darkness of the world brought to its bloody knees.
        "War is hunger," a mother tells her daughter. She boiled honey and tea with weeds and that was lunch for twenty. She never wants to forget its taste. War is springtime with its soft rain, singing birds, shoots of green and nothing to eat. War is hiding a squealing pink piglet in a hole; suddenly seeing an unknown aunt with oddly crooked legs who appears out of nowhere. "Slicing the Bread" will keep us listening to the crackling voices of an urgent past that --without the poetry such as this is of Maja Trochimczyk" -- could be fast growing silent.
                 ~ Georgia Jones-Davis (Blue Poodle, Finishing Line Press)

Candles in the Church on Plac Grzybowski, Warszawa

Maja Trochimczyk’s poems draw you into a bestial, almost inconceivable history. Using objects –bread, potatoes, trapdoors, high heels–she guides you through an experience with the madness of World War II and its aftermath when a dictator is judged worse or better by how many fewer millions he has slaughtered. This book needed to be written. Trochimczyk doesn’t lecture; you are riveted by the power of her poems; their narratives flow from her hands as if a Babcia were still guiding them. And maybe she was. You will remember the taste of this book.

                  ~ Sharon Chmielarz (author of Love from the Yellowstone Trail)  

Bread with a miniature of the Polish Order of Polonia Restituta (one of the highest 

distinctions in Poland, established in 1921), a flea market find by Maja Trochimczyk. 

Unwavering in its honesty, Slicing the Bread is a thought-provoking look at a brutal chapter in history: the German Nazi occupation of Poland during World War II.  Trochimczyk gives a public face to this history but also reveals the private heart of a family that endures despite horrific loss.  With simple language and stark imagery, these poems create a powerful testimony and bear witness to the hate that destroys, to the truth that restores, and to the poetic vision that honors our common humanity.

~ Linda Nemec Foster (author of Amber Necklace from Gdansk,  LSU Press;

winner of the Creative Arts Award from the Polish American Historical Association)

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.

Lilie and Konwalie in Paris - Monet, Chopin and the Rain

What do I love in Paris? So much, it is hard to make a list...  I started from Musee de l'Orangerie and a visit to my favorite Water Lilies, Monet's gift to the French nation and to the world. Eight monumental multi-panel paintings, two rooms, Dusk and Dawn, or Dawn and Dusk... You can sit there for ever. Last time, in 2011, I wrote a set of poems inspired by the paintings, and took home pictures. This year, cameras were strictly forbidden, and the guards chased after the tourists who pretend they were not holding their smartphones up at all...

What piece of music should we listen to while admiring the lilies? Maybe a String Quartet by Gabriel Faure? Maybe the Sonata for Flute, Viola and Harp by Claude Debussy? or maybe the Nocturne op. 27 No. 2 by Fryderyk Chopin?

Among the Lilies

~ Inspired by Claude Monet’s Water Lilies at L’Orangerie, October 2011, Paris

PART I. DAWN

I.

Etched under my eyelids

The water lilies rest on the surface

Of Monet’s pond at Giverny

Intense blues and greens of his palette

Fill me with color he invented

 

This, I want to see – his nenufary

This I want to be – a lily among his blossoms

With my golden hair

In a halo of sunrays, above aquamarine

And celadon

My crystal necklace

Sparkles like the pond he made

Sunlit, translucent

Mirrors of stained-glass windows

Lined with birdsong

II.

Clouds measure the stillness of water

Cerulean breeze dances in the grass

He starts a new canvas

Turquoise into aqua into mauve

The secret of water lilies

Born in iridescence

His garden drinks in

The dark vertigo of the sky, swirling

With opaque strands of mist

Dawn air chills his fingers

III.

He keeps the colors royal

Vermilion and scarlet

The breeze shifts, scattering the patterns

Cleansing the air

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

IV.

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

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

PART II - DUSK

V.

The dusk is falling

Brush drops from his fingers

In a stretch of darkness

Contours barely felt, imagined

Shade-green leaves

The water – unfathomable

Murky, mysterious

The end of the beginning

Crimson lily brightens

The moonlight

VI.

The moon is too close

Willow’s shadows

Grow on the other shore

His brush sings of solitude

The willows weep and weep

Drop leaves into the pond

Remember the fallen

VII.

He strains to see

The dream of a blue horizon

White shape-shifting clouds

Shimmy across the water

A day transposed

Above the deterioration

Of time stretched by blindness

He paints a latch to escape

VIII.

Light becomes heavy

Settles into the sunset

Brightness of yellow hearts

Erased in the still, stilling world

Silence tastes of Beaujolais

White blossoms open and close

From dusk to dawn

From dawn to dusk

Only the water the lilies and the sky 

I got one ticket at Musee d'Orsay - to tour its abundant collections and to see my beloved Monet lilies. Each time you visit the same museum, filled with masterpieces, you find something different to fall in love with. This time, I discovered Vincent Van Gogh's  La Méridienne oú La sieste, d'apres Millet, a large azzure and gold painting of a couple resting at noon from the hard work of harvesting grain.  It is quite large, for a Van Gogh, and is set in an enormous, ornate gold frame. The colors are intense, vivid, like only Van Gogh would be: you feel the sunlight burning at noon; prickling straw, the allure of a cool shade... I have yet to see a reproduction that gives justice to the perfect balance of the artist's colors. Pure genius. The blue is rich, intense, the gold of the straw vivid, but neither orangey nor lemony, as on some copies. Of course, none of the posters could have the richly textured surface of the painting, covered with fervid strokes, touchingly unfinished in corners. (I love those unfinished corners and borders the most, in all Van Gogh! They reveal the intensity of his passion...)

Vincent Van Gogh, La Méridienne oú La sieste, d'apres Millet (1890)

And of course, there is the love story right there, in the golden noon. Resting in trust. In comfort. 

          Azure

         ~ after Noon by Van Gogh and Millet

     Half of the day's work is done.

     She curls into a ball by his side

     He stretches up, proudly thinking

     of the bread they will bake,

     the children they will feed.

     Noon rays dance on the straw

     they cut with their sickles 

     to finish the harvest when the sky 

     is still the bluest of summer azure.

     She took the first fistful of stems 

     solemnly, among the rolling waves 

     of wheat ocean. She made a figurine,

     placed it high up on the wooden fence 

     overlooking their fields. She learned

     it from her mother, her mother before her,

     generations reaching back to that first 

     handful of grain, droplets of wine 

     and water spilled at its feet. 

     The offering for the goddess of harvest. 

     They move together in consort

     in the white gold of silence.

     They rest together, two pieces

     in a puzzle of bread to come.

The painting reminded me of my childhood memories, thirst for cool water on a hot burning day, holding a small child's rake in sweaty hands, trying to avoid getting scratched by the thick, sharp ends of straw... I captured some of the wonder of harvest in one of my Chopin poems, "Harvesting Chopin..."  - dedicated to my father Aleksy, uncle Galakcyon, and grandmother Nina Trochimczyk. Here a Mazurka will not be out of place.. .Mazurkain F-sharp Minor, Op. 59, No. 3 .  Like all Chopin's mazurkas it is there and yet it is not, nostalgia takes you from here to the golden past, the joy of dancing in circles, round and round...

Harvesting Chopin

The straw was too prickly,

the sunlight too bright,

my small hands too sweaty

to hold the wooden rake

my uncle carved for me.

I cried on the field of stubble; 

stems fell under his scythe.

I was four and had to work -

Grandma said - no work no food.

How cruel!  I longed for

the noon’s short shadows 

when I'd quench my thirst

with cold water, taste

the freshly-baked rye bread

sweetened by the strands 

of music wafting from 

the kitchen window.  

Distant scent of mazurkas

floated above the harvesters

dressed in white, long-sleeved shirts 

to honor the bread in the making.

The dance of homecoming

and sorrow – that is what 

Chopin was in the golden air

above the fields of Bielewicze 

where children had to earn their right 

to rest in the daily dose of the piano –

too pretty, too prickly, too bright.

It was raining outside, when I left the museum with my butterfly umbrella and walked through the drizzle in my ballerina flats.  Acacia and horse chesnut were in bloom. White daisies dotted the grass. Flower stands were filled with bouquets of lilies of the valley, the scent of konwalie filled the air.  No wonder people sing: "I love Paris in the spring time, I love Paris in the fall..." and fall in love in Paris, with Paris.  On my first evening there, I saw a marriage proposal under the Eiffel Tower: in front of hundreds of tourists, the man knelt down and asked his one question, the woman started to cry. He stood up to put the ring on her finger and the onlookers sang and cheered. 

Only in Paris... 

A heart of a sycamore tree,

bells of konwalie on the stone bridge

not far from the steel branches of the Eiffel Tower

reflected in wet cobblestone streets.

Delighted with the sweet scent  

from my childhood garden

I wander through the drizzle 

with my butterfly umbrella

until the sun comes out 

shining on the fallen blossom of a chesnut,

and the star-white secrets of  kalina and jasmin. 

hidden in a garden made for nobody, but me.

Shadows stretch beyond leaf-painted park vistas...

Night dazzles the still rainy city.

The sky - a Van Gogh painting - its magic spills over

beyond the moment, breathing 

like only Paris in the spring rain can breathe...

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All pictures (C) 2014 by Maja Trochimczyk 

Selected poems from "Among the Lilies" were published in The Lummox Journal in 2013. 

"Harvesting Chopin" was published in Chopin with Cherries (Moonrise Press, 2010).