Thursday, August 25, 2016

"The Rainy Bread: Poems from Exile" - Stories of Poles from Kresy - Deported to Siberia, Scattered Around the World

I'm going  to Poland in September - to welcome the youngest member of my family, the first grandson, and to attend the conference Kresy-Siberia "Generations Remember 2016" of families and survivors that lived in the Eastern borderlands of Poland, called Kresy (now Lithuania, Belarus and Ukraine), and were deported by Stalinist government to Siberia in 1940-43, survived with severe losses and trauma, and emigrated to the ends of the world. For my poetry reading at the conference, I put together a brand-new book. 


by Maja Trochimczyk. Moonrise Press, August 2016
ISBN 9781945938009, paperback, 64 pages, $10.00
ISBN 9781945938016eBook, $10.00

This volume includes 30 poems about forgotten stories of Poles living in the Eastern Borderlands of Kresy, who were killed, deported, imprisoned, or oppressed after the invasion of Poland by the Soviet Union on September 17, 1939.  Some of these brief portraits capture the trauma and resilience, ordeals and miraculous survival stories of the author’s immediate family. Her maternal family comes from Baranowicze and the surrounding area near Adam Mickiewicz’s Nowogródek and the mythical lake of Świteź in what is now Belarus. Their experiences of displacement, hunger, cold, and poverty during the war are typical of Polish civilian.

These fictionalized memories are coupled with depictions of survival of other Poles deported to Siberia, the Arctic Circle, or Kazakhstan; who left the Soviet Union with the Second Corps of the Polish Army under General Władysław Anders; were transported to refugee camps in India or Africa; and ended up in Argentina, Canada, Australia or the U.S. The book is a companion to “Slicing the Bread: Children’s Survival Manual in 25 Poems” (Finishing Line Press, 2014), with which it shares some poems, including vignettes from the author’s childhood in Warsaw, permeated by the strange rhetoric of the Polish People’s Republic, yet still overshadowed by the war. 

You can read the introduction on the Moonrise Press blog


≡ KOLYMA ≡

Who knows how many?
The pit was dark, still darker at the bottom,
deep as the gates of hell. Its demon’s mouth wide
open to devour row after row of bright young men.

Who knows their faces now?
The corn-blue eyes sparkling with tears and laughter.
The closely cropped soldier’s dark blond hair.

Down, down they went
to the bottomless pits of Kołyma
for Stalin’s diamonds, uranium for his bombs.

Down, down they went
to the boundless hell of Kołyma
for Stalin’s riches, his bombs, and his revenge.

They lost the fight for Poland’s sacred freedom
They knew how precious independence was, how rare.
They kept on fighting when enemies became allies.
Their lives sold on a global market of slaves.

Down, down they went
To the bottomless mines of Kołyma
For Stalin’s diamonds, uranium for his bombs.




≡  UNDER AFRICAN SKY ≡
                                       ≡   for Julian Stanczak  

    amber and coral
    ruby and carnelian

He looks at the brightness of the African sky.
The blazing sunset above the plains of Uganda
His eyes follow the pattern of light and shadow
on the savanna’s tall grass. Dark lines cut
into light on the flanks of a zebra —
he thinks of a donkey back home,
transformed by the extravagant, geometric
boldness of stripes, shining bright —

blinding his eyes, used to Siberian darkness
in dim interiors of musty prison huts —
he admires the play of gold and bronze inside
the tiger’s eye — a stone his teacher gave him
for protection and good luck. How it shifts
with each turn, different, yet the same —
lines upon lines of light.

The richness stays under his eyelids
as he twists and turns the tiger’s eye
in his one good hand, left — while the other,
a useless appendage, hangs limply
since the beating in a Soviet prison camp.
Shattered, like his dream of music,
the honey-rich tones of his cello.

He finds a different-flavored honey
in the richness of African sunsets,
the stripes of the tiger’s eye.  

He captures the undulating lines
and blazing hues on majestic canvas,
moving in the rhythm of wild planes
out of Africa, into fame.

amber and topaz
    gold, bronze, and light
    so much light  —


Hot Summer by Julian Stanczak (1956)


≡ LIST OF POEMS 

≡ PART I  DESTINATIONS ≡ 1

  1.           What to Carry ≡ 2
  2.              Starlight ≡ 3
  3.           Charlie, Who Did  Not Cross ≡ 4
  4.              Five Countries in Venice ≡ 6
  5.              Eyes on the Road ≡ 8
  6.              The Baton ≡ 9
  7.              Diamonds ≡ 10

 ≡ PART II  THERE AND NOWHERE ≡ 11


  1.              The Odds ≡ 12
  2.               Wołyń ≡ 13
  3.               Kołyma ≡ 15
  4.               Amu Darya ≡ 16
  5.               Shambhala ≡ 18
  6.               Reflection ≡ 20
  7.               A Piece of Good Advice to Stuff in the Hole  in the Wall ≡ 21
  8.               A Pilot in Pakistan ≡ 22
  9.               Under African Sky ≡ 23

≡ ≡ ≡ PART III  THE HUNGER DAYS ≡ 25


  1.             Kasha ≡ 26
  2.            The Trap Door ≡ 27
  3.             Slicing the Bread ≡ 29
  4.              Peeling the Potatoes ≡ 30

  ≡ ≡ ≡ PART IV  THERE AND BACK ≡ 33


  1.          Of Trains and Tea ≡ 34
  2.           Once Upon a Time in Baranowicze ≡ 35
  3.                     Ciocia Tonia ≡ 37
  4.           Asters ≡ 39
  5.           No Chicken ≡ 41
  6.           The Coat ≡ 43
  7.           Short Leg≡ 44
  8.                     Standing Guard ≡ 46
  9.           Losing Irena ≡ 47
  10.           Language ≡ 48






≡ ABOUT THIS BOOK 

Unwavering in its honesty, The Rainy Bread is a thought-provoking look at a brutal chapter in history: the Soviet occupation of Poland during World War II and the deportations and repressions that took place in the country's Easter Borderlands, known as Kresy. 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 Gdańsk (LSU Press), 
winner of the Creative Arts Award from the Polish American Historical Association

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.  This is a fascinating, tragic, and instructive time in history which should not me neglected. 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


Maja Trochimczyk, Portrait by Susan Rogers, 2013

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

On Clear Skies, Summer Sounds, and the Secret Weight of Words

once upon a time
pink trees flowered under the azure 
of deep, clear expanse

It is almost the end of July, a strange summer of chemtrails, clear skies, heat waves, and wildfires... In recent weeks, I was delighted to again see beautiful blue, clear skies above my head, after months and months of criss-crossing chemtrails.  It was a "Victory of Light" in the hidden war above our heads, a short respite from the chaotic graffiti in the sky. I call these failed artwork "graffiti" -gang signs marking territory where gang enforces its rules - in my photo albums, documenting the shifting patterns, and colors of my California sky. That's how I noticed them, by taking pictures of no-longer azure skies...


no, no, I do not
allow these strange graffiti
to taint my sky

the white haze -
iridescent like fish-scales
in polluted ocean



how deep is the blue?
only the sunrays will know
after piercing the sky

The summer sounds... I was raised with the clacking of the storks and the noise of their wings. Both sets of my grandparents in their villages in different parts of Poland had stork nests on their property: one on the barn roof (a wheel off an old wagon, on which storks piled up branches), and one on the top of a pine that had been struck by lightning and had a bent branch up there... I remember coming out at 6 a.m., sleepy and disoriented after being woken up by the wild ruckus up the tree not far from my window. The wooden porch was sunny and warm, and the world was waking up to yet another day of peaceful summer.

Ambika Talwar, a poet-friend, commented: "This is eternal and true wherever you may be. Claim it! Hold it in your heart. Speak of it. Say it out loud. Awaken someone who needs this now. Sing it so the birds listen to you. Be your dancing self."

Photo from Poland Forever group on Facebook.

The  storks used to follow my uncle in the meadow, about two steps behind, when he was cutting down the grass with the scythe. This is one of my favorite images of Poland, not a photo since I did not have a camera yet: the two storks following my uncle and picking up frogs and what not to eat for breakfast... Peace, and communion with nature, that's what it was (except for the frogs).

Another delightful sound of my childhood was the noise of the bees, and I liked it even though I once had 21 stings in my head and was very sick with their venom.  Maybe, by now, I'm related to the bees... In my California garden the crape myrtle tree is flowering with beautiful purple blossoms that attract hundreds of bees, busily collecting the nectar and making the most heavenly sound I remember from my Polish childhood. When I went for summer vacations to my Grandma's house in the "colony" of Bielewicze (not even a village, but a scattering of houses in the fields by the forest, on the eastern Kresy of Poland), I admired the intensity and patterns of the buzzing of bees in the majestic linden tree in the middle of the courtyard. In Polish, this tree is called "Lipa" - hence the month of "Lipiec" when it flowers. In English: July. Here, under the azure and turquoise cupola of California's skies, there are no linden trees, but the bees sing their songs quite as happily: busy, busy, busy, bzzz, bzzz, bzzz...

The bees go to sleep in the evening. Their familiar and beloved sounds are replaced by another guest from the past, or a couple of guests: crickets that have moved inside the house, sit behind the bookshelf and play, play, play - to their heart's desire.  The Polish village tradition of having a cricket behind the chimney stemmed from the habit of these sonorous critters to seek shelter from cold autumn and winter days in the warmth of village house kitchens: hence the saying, "to be comfy as a cricket behind a chimney," or "swierszcz za kominem."

Here, in the middle of California summer, it is very hot outside, perhaps too hot, so maybe the bookshelf, right by my empty and cold fireplace, provides a shaded and safe shelter from the heat? No matter what reason, I love listening to these critters. They rub their legs to make this lively noise, they do work very hard. Imagine if I had to rub my legs to speak at such a speed! Amazing! What onomatopoeia should reflect the chirping of the crickets? chir-chir-chir is too slow, szuru-buru is too low, so let's leave this translation aside and enjoy.


Chinese scholars used to catch crickets, put them in little cages and make them sing by poking them with a stick. I saw a whole assortment of such cricket cages at the Pacific Asia Museum and was quite offended at the presumptuous human "jailers" who should have set their crickets free, to have them come and play at will, as guests, not prisoners.

A Cricket Sings
The intricate opening
carved into patterns
of ancient elegance
lets feeble light
into the ornate cage
the smooth brown cask
is a luxurious coffin
for insect freedom

How sad for the cricket!

Tickled to sing,
it awakens in a box
held by sweaty hands
of an imperial scribe
who listens to the memory
of distant farmlands
in his own gilded cage -
a tiny room hidden by
the splendor of ancient
palace walls

How sad for the cricket!

(c) 2009 by Maja Trochimczyk



I'm sure that the songs of the captive crickets was not as happy as the one that I'm listening to right now. Alas, I cannot record it, as my house is filled with another, somewhat louder noise, that of the old. fridge. While I tried to come closer to record my evening music, the result was silence: the cricket realized it was not alone and stopped its night-time serenade altogether.  Thus, I learned that "the presence of the observer changes the phenomenon being observed" - a variation on the Heisenberg Principle, heard in my living room, on a summer evening! And my friend tells me that, had I been able to record the cricket and slow down the recording I would have heard singing, just like human voices: http://truthseekerdaily.com/2013/11/someone-recorded-crickets-then-slowed-down-the-track-and-it-sounds-like-humans-singing/.


As physicists have told us, the Uncertainty Principle, a characteristics of all waves, states that you can either know where something is, or how fast it is going, but not both at the same time. In other words: "the more precisely the position of some particle is determined, the less precisely its momentum can be known, and vice versa."  This explains the position of my keys, sunglasses, and stick-drives in my reality, since I do not know where they are at the precise moment of leaving my house, they must be accelerating with intense momentum to reach the speed of light and disappear forever on the other side, in the universe of left socks, assorted pens, hairpins, sunglasses, keys and umbrellas. There must be such a universe, given the hundreds of items that disappear without trace each year.


Seriously speaking, we do have to be serious when speaking: words have weight. So few among us understand the power and potency of words in creating realities. Millions of people have read "The Secret" where this idea is popularized, yet they sought another "get rich quick" scheme and overlooked a fundamental principle of human reality. Words create Worlds. Is it said in the Gospel of John:

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not..."

Manuscript in the Badische Landesbibliothek, Karlsruhe, Germany, 1220.  Cod. Bruchsal 1, Bl. 1v 

That's a pretty important statement about  the true significance of words, filled, as they are, with the Divine creative power. Words create human reality.  We live in the Universe we made of words. Poets do, philosophers, scientists, scholars, politicians, business people, do, parents and children do - we all define our realities in words. Spoken aloud, words can become enchantments or curses: "I hate you, go away" breaks the heart of a child, and may lead to a life-time of trauma. "I love you, you are beautiful" brings an instant flowering of gladness.

On the website of Dr. Masaru Emoto (1943-2014) we read: "We all learn valuable life lessons at our own pace, but there is one basic truth we all learn early.  Positive, compassionate words comfort and heal; negative words and insults hurt. Until recently, we knew this only because we could feel it.  Now we can actually see it.  Thanks to the experimental work of Dr. Masaru Emoto, we can look to water, and its frozen crystals, to confirm the healing power of beautiful music, positive thinking, uplifting speech, and prayer."


"By exposing water to a particular word or piece of music, freezing it, and photographing the ice crystals formed, Dr. Emoto has shown that from beautiful words and music, come beautiful crystals, and from mean-spirited, negative words, come malformed and misshapen crystals. What is the significance?  It becomes clear when we remember that the adult human body is approximately 70% water and infant bodies are about 90% water.  We can be hurt emotionally and, as the water can be changed, for the worse physically, by negativity. However, we are always closer to beauty when surrounded by positive thoughts, words, intentions and ultimately those vibrations."


Dr. Emoto’s theories are articulated in his books: The Hidden Messages in Water, The True Power of Water, and The Secret Life of Water.  Some of his experiments involved writing or saying "I love you" and "I hate you" to various samples of water, with the effect showing the creative, organizing power of love and the destructive, chaotic nature of hate. In other experiments he compared crystals formed in frozen samples from pure stream water  and from microwaved water. Just looking at them makes you want to throw out your microwave... It just is not right.


In any case, believe it or not, water, or not water, the healing power of self-talk, affirmation of one's own value, beauty, goodness, and happiness is well established. But then, what about all these curses, uttered at random, casually? So many "F-bombs" dropped on the waters within the listeners and the speakers alike... What is the damage? We do not know for sure yet, except that "grating" effect, that feeling of being "taken down" a notch, somehow diminished.  I was cursed out by someone not long ago in a phone message I saved, thinking it would be a good start of a book, and not realizing that words could be used with such venom. But then, I thought - why bother? If I transcribe and publish those curses, I'll add to their hidden power, I'll make them go out to the world and do the work that they were designed for: to destroy, to diminish...

Instead, I decided to write an entirely different book, of "Poems and incantations" leading the readers Into Light, with its 30 poems and 12 prayers... I wrote them for myself, but also to share. Enjoy!


Crown Jewels

I am an onyx of grounding
I am amber of attraction
I am a topaz of resilience

I am a rose quartz of affection
I am a turquoise of expression
I am an amethyst of insight

I am a sapphire of faith
I am an emerald of hope
I am a ruby of love

I am a crystal of clarity
I am a pearl of understanding
I am a diamond of light
This book is now available in the following formats:

Paperback (trade, 6 by 9  inches), ISBN 978 0 9963981 8 3
http://www.lulu.com/shop/maja-trochimczyk/into-light-poems-and-incantations/paperback/product-22829841.html

Pocketbook (4.22 by 6.88 inches), No ISBN, available on lulu.com
http://www.lulu.com/shop/http://www.lulu.com/shop/maja-trochimczyk/into-light-poems-and-incantations/paperback/product-22810285.html

and E-Book in ePub format,ISBN 978 0 9963981 9 0
http://www.lulu.com/shop/http://www.lulu.com/shop/maja-trochimczyk/into-light-poems-and-incantations/ebook/product-22830071.html


Thursday, June 9, 2016

My Favorite Wildflowers in California - A Photo Essay (Haiga Sequence)

When spring stretches its days and falls into the hot weight of the summer, it is time to visit the heroic blossoms of the chaparral  yucca, reaching up to the sky, against all odds.  This flower, so abundant in the valley where I live, is a survivor on the go. The plant with thin, blade-like spiky leaves (with extremely sharp tips, like needles), sends up one thick stem that grows and grows and grows until it starts unfurling a cascade of white flowers, off white maybe, ivory or cream, and the whole valley fills with these gigantic candle-like blossoms. Then they go to seed and die, and the seeds sprout anew nearby and a new flower points at clouds, and the cycle continues...


in a green desert 
yucca blossoms open -
a skyward ladder

tall yucca blossoms
point to cloudy desert sky -
magic without rain

spring desert delight
coconut and whipped cream  -
yucca whipplei

sharp spikes and shadows
the silver galaxy of yucca leaves -
enter at your peril


the magic of symmetry
moves in a blur of  lines
into yucca's heart

a blue jay in the blue sky
watches the world go round  and round
from the flower top 



serene after sunset -
aqua, fuchsia and violet sky
pierced by whiteness

flower triplets 
born of sand and rocks 
reach for the sky 

this dot is the moon -
prim yucca patiently explains
to disheveled clouds

yuccas at sunset -
spikes and blossoms unfold 
against the dark

here it is 
my yucca on the tip of my finger
in my valley


My other favorite flower grows here and there in the wild, but it is also planted in garden. This is the white and yellow poppy growing on two meter tall stems with silvery green leaves: The Matilija Poppy (Romneya coulteri). I like it so much, I put it on the cover of the anthology, Meditations on Divine Light. It does look like a sun with a corona of light, and  rays, doesn't it? Or maybe the ballerina, or Marilyn with her skirts floating on the hot air from the subway vents? But certainly not an egg, surely not an egg...

breeze lifts the skirts
of a shy ballerina -
Marilyn reborn

the thrill of frills
unfurling from a tight ball
into a sunburst

petal and clouds
float above my head - I squint, 
flooded by sunlight

Hello, Ms. Bee
we both love gold nectar and honey -
I eat yours



...but then, there other flowers growing in the wild, including the rare Plummer's Mariposa and the Humboldt Lilies (Lilium humboldtii) photographed high up in the San Gabriel Mountains by Kristin Sabo. Both lilies are endemic to Southern California and extremely rare. 

Plummer's mariposa
discovers the triune symmetry
once again

wild mountain lily -
fuzzy geometry of dusk
in three petals

twin jellyfish  -
lilies swim through the sunset
to the night's ocean 

And, of course, there is an abundance of flowers, not so wild, in Descanso Gardens, starting from an forest of camellias, imported from Japan and bought by Mr. Boddy from a Japanese nursery at the time of deportations in the 1940s.  I wrote about those camelias already and even made a collage of the Sunbloom, with a white corona and golden rays:

camellia stamens
dance, twist, wave, turn
seeking the sun

ever calling - never heard
ever seeking - never seen
revealed
  

But would there be flowers, if there were no leaves? We had visited the sharp spikes of the yucca already. Here are some wet leaves in the rain in Descanso Gardens. I do not know what they are, but sure they shine brightly, like polished jade.

smoothed by raindrops
emerald leaves stretch and sigh -
a green heart of spring

line after line -
the elemental breath exhales 
oxygen into air