On Portraits, Monuments, and the Feminine Touch...

Poets after a reading at Bolton Hall Museum, February 22, 2015

Photo by Gene Schultz

In the middle of my book tour, reading an always changing assortment of verse from "Slicing the Bread" - a chapbook inspired by war memories of my family and the war's long shadow over my childhood - I started to feel like a star. Fame got to my head and it started expanding, like a balloon filled with nothing but hot air. It was Victor Sotomayor who did it - by posting my portrait, by Jessica Wilson Cardenas, on his Instagram account. In a gold jacket, with eyes lower to the page, I do look like a poet, a real poet.

Photo by Jessica Wilson Cardenas, February 2015

Or else, I look like I'm going to eat that mike... In any case, the "Slicing the Bread" book tour took me to the Rapp Saloon in Santa Monica, Bolton Hall Museum in Tujunga, Foster Library in Ventura and Tia Chucha's Center in Sylmar... Each reading was different, with a different selection of poems. I can make it about my Mom, my Dad, the Germans, the Soviets, the killing of Poles, the killing of Jews, the destruction of human spirit by the war.... Lots of options, all hard to deal with. At some readings people cried. I never do, these vignettes are into facts of life. It would have been better without these facts. But there are other facts of life, of equally horrid magnitude, that are happening right now, and nobody cries... The wars, the famines, the poverty, children dying before they grow up. . . and here we are reading poetry, instead of doing something useful.

Susan Rogers and Maja Trochimczyk. Photo by Susan Rogers.

But, poetry is useful. By naming things, it brings order to the world. By naming monsters and demons, it draws borders around them, makes them tame.  Some open mike readers were taming their personal monsters, reading stories of trauma that only they know well... Catharsis is an excellent use of poetry, and so is description of others. I'm a bit wary of extraordinarily beautiful and skillful descriptions of suffering. Somehow, the pain gets lost in the enchanting thicket of the words. It is better to be very matter-of-fact precise and simple. Basic even, just the bare bones. 

Reading at the Rapp Saloon, Photo by Susan Rogers.

At the first reading, at the Rapp Saloon (where I was invited by host Elena Secota), I was afraid that so much sorrow, death, and destruction will exhaust the listeners so I ended the reading with a couple of love poems from "Rose Always." It was still the month of February, the month of love... But these heartfelt romances felt like fluff, decorative and ornamental, but not very useful after the heaviness and tragedies of war. 

I decided putting both books in one reading was a mistake, and then I picked some of the most dramatic poems for the next appearance, at the Bolton Hall. The weather went dramatic too, with torrential rain. It did not help that I was competing with the entire Hollywood glamour, the Oscars.  Still, the choice group of poets who did not want to admire fancy dresses, and came to share the poetry instead, provided me with an extremely attentive and sensitive audience. The reading pleased everyone, and the open mike poetry was outstanding - with Toti O'Brien, Mari Werner, and Mira Mataric who read her translations into Serbian of three of my poems (photos still to come).

Poets at Tia Chucha's, February 27, 2015. Photo by Maria Kubal

The Tia Chucha's audience was equally focused on each word, made more difficult by my foreign - to them unfamiliar - accent.  But  I had help. For "The Way to School" Drgn Billy, percussionist from Tikkal Sun, and my newest Facebook friend, agreed to play his flat hand drum when I pointed at him. The blunt strokes of the mallet punctuated the poem, transforming the reading into a true performance. I was going to read more, but that artful and expressive piece needed nothing further. I can read more at the next stop of my poetry tour...

Monument for Polish civilians murdered by Germans in Warsaw in 1944.

Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

The Way to School

Walking to her high school on Bema Street. 

she counted three cement crosses in ten minutes 

every morning.

One in the middle of her subdivision of apartment blocks, 

standing guard at the edge of chipped asphalt: 

Nine hundred.

One in the mini-park, where two gravel paths cross 

on a patch of overgrown grass after you go under the train bridge: 

Twelve hundred.

One on the wall of a grimy three-story building, 

with round bullet holes still visible in the stained, grey stucco: 

Twenty two hundred.

She memorized the inscriptions: “This place is sanctified 

by the blood of Poles fighting for freedom, murdered by Hitlerites.” 

 “Some Germans were good, not Nazis,” her teacher said, 

“They marched in the May 1st parades.”

Only the numbers differed, and dates:

August 5, August 6, August 7, 1944. The Uprising.

50 thousand civilians shot in the streets of Warsaw. 

The bullets came fast. Those soldiers had practice. 

Wehrmacht, Police Batalions, RONA, Waffen SS. 

No shortage of killers. Some had children back home. 

She did not want to think of thousands.

She did not want to know their names.

"The Way to School" was first published in San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, vol. 63 (2014) and reprinted in "Slicing the Bread" chapbook (Finishing Line Press, 2014).

Monument to Polish civilians murdered by Germans in Warsaw in 1944.

Photo by Maja Trochimczyk

_______________________________________

Tragedy and romance do not go together, unless the latter is the antidote for the former. This is the case with my Trilogy of Grief and Loss, published in a special issue of Clockwise Cat - entitled Femmewise Cat and including two of my photos and three poems: The Waiting, the Tragedy and the Shooting Star, a portrait of 29th century pianist-composer, Maria Szymanowska. 

The principle of the whole endeavor was highlighting women's creativity - women's issues, and women's art. Poetry, flash fiction, essays, rants, photography, drawings, profile of female artists we all must know. The volume is excitingly rich in content. It will take me a while to read this double journal of monumental proportions. The fun part, you can turn the pages electronically, and read it, on the screen, as if on paper.  I like that and will keep reading. 

             http://issuu.com/clockwisecat/docs/femmewise_cat_part_ii?e=13963388%2F11675756

I was extremely pleased with finally getting a whole series of excellent portraits from a reading, all by Jessica Wilson and Mary Kubal. (Otherwise, I pose with the book after the reading ends, and these shots often look as they are, completely staged and fake).  It was so kind for them to take the time to upload or send pictures to me, to spend time with my poetry and its aftermath.  This is love of a true friend. 

 

                                 Reading at Tia Chucha's. Portraits by Jessica Wilson Cardenas.

Is love just fluff, roses and chocolate hearts and kittens? No, not at all. Sometimes it costs a lot. Hours of waiting, tears in silence... The project of "Heartbreaks" in which Karineh Mahdessian paired up male and female poets (from the previous, separate anthologies), turned out to be not for me. I much rather write of long years of waiting, of those old fashioned virtues - faith, hope and love, but the greatest is love. ... 

In the meantime, big thanks to my female friends - who invited me, came to my readings, took photos, published my work, translated my poems, and supported me in a multitude of ways.  With this amount of love, the Women's Month, surrounding the International Women's Day (March 8) is off to a good start. 

Ah, and one more thing... The Editor, Kresse Armour, put an article about my Distinguished Service Award from the Polish American Historical Association in The Voice, Sunland-Tujunga's community paper. She called me "Local Woman" - I am so proud! "Local woman, walking down the street..." A foreigner, with a foreign accent still very pronounced, I made Sunland my home and now I am "local" - what a great gift for the Women's Month! 

A Calendar of Readings from "Slicing the Bread"

I am happy to report that the publication of my book "Slicing the Bread: A Children’s Survival Manual in 25 Poems" will be followed by a series of readings, starting from a sample of two poems read at the Rattle Reading Series, Flintridge Bookstore, in January 2015. This reading is posted on the website documenting poetry readings by local poets, Poetry LA (www.poetry.la): Maja Trochimczyk. The previous recording, of "Three Postcards from Paris" was done in 2011 at the Bolton Hall Museum in Tujunga.



The first poem was "What to Carry" reproduced below, and the second was the title poem "Slicing the Bread" - reproduced in an earlier issue of this blog.


What to Carry

You never know when the war will come,
her mother said. You have to be ready.
Most things are unimportant.
You must take your gold, your family jewels.
Diamonds will buy you food.
Gold will save your life. Forget silver, too heavy.
Take sturdy boots with two pairs of socks,
a warm, goose-down comforter on your back,
one picture, no books. Leave it all.
You will have to walk, sleep in a ditch, walk.
Pack lightly. What you carry, will protect you.
From starving, from freezing. That’s what matters.
Goose-down and gold. Hunger and snow.

She still has her goose-down coverlet,
useless in California. Her mother squished it
into a suitcase the first time she came to visit.
The down came from geese plucked decades ago
in Bielewicze, by her Grandma, Nina.
Diamonds? She sold her rings
to pay for the divorce, keep the house
with pomegranates and orange trees.
Her shoes are useless too –
a rainbow of high heels in the closet.


READING DATES AND ADDRESSES

FEBRUARY 2015

Friday, February 20th, at 8:30 p.m. Santa Monica Third Fridays at the Rapp Saloon Poetry Reading Hosted by Elena Secota Featured Poet, with Joe Camhi
The Rapp Saloon, 1436 2nd St, Santa Monica, CA 90401, https://www.facebook.com/events/332585603610874/

Sunday, February 22nd, at 4:30 p.m. Village Poets Monthly Reading. Bolton Hall Museum, 10110 Commerce Avenue, Tujunga, CA 91042. Featured Poet.

Thursday, February 26th, at 7:30 p.m. Ventura Ventura Poets Reading hosted by Phil Taggart “Voices of Survivors” book reading from  “Slicing the Bread” with Ed Rosenthal reading from “A Desert Hat” inspired by being lost and found in the Mojave Desert
E. P. Foster Library, 651 East Main Street, Ventura, CA 93001 Phone (805) 648-2716

Friday, February 27th, at 8:00 p.m. Featured poet at Poetry Open Mike, Host Victor Sotomayor, Sylmar
Tia Chucha's Centro Cultural, 13197 Gladstone Avenue "A" Sylmar, CA 91342
(cross street/210 exit: Hubbard) Phone:(818) 939-3433

MARCH 2015

Sunday, March 15th, at 4-6 p.m. Louis Jane Studio, Pasadena Poets And Verse – An Exploration Of Life’s Journey with Guest Artist: Lynda Pyka, and poets Cindy Rinne, Lois P. Jones, Deborah P. Kolodji, Taoli-Ambika Talwar, Gerda Govine and Kathabela Wilson
Louis Jane Studio, 93 East Union Street, Pasadena, CA 91103, (626) 796-8333
Louisjane.com

APRIL 2015

Sunday, April 5th, at 7pm (Easter Sunday) co-feature at Catcher in the Rye  for the  "Speakeasy Sunday" reading organized by the Los Angeles Poet Society.  10550 Riverside Drive, Toluca Lake, CA 91602 http://www.losangelespoetsociety.org/#!speakeasy-sunday/c8wb


Sunday, April 19th, at 2:00pm Moonday Poetry Hosted by Alice Pero and Lois P. Jones “Woman in Metaphor “Group Reading from an Anthology edited by Maria Elena B. Meyer
Flintridge Bookstore and Coffeehouse, 1010 Foothill Boulevard, La Cañada Flintridge, CA 9101, Phone:(818) 790-0717 www.moondaypoetry.com

MAY 2015

Saturday, May 9th, 3 p.m. Saturday Afternoon Poetry, Pasadena, hosted by Don Kingfisher Campbell.
Santa Catalina Branch of the Pasadena Public Library.
 999 E. Washington Blvd., Pasadena (east of Lake Blvd).

Saturday, May 16th, 4 p.m. Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center, Venice “Crossing Dark Borders: The Poetry of Shadow, Shade and Long Night.” Lisa Cheby , Georgia Jones-Davis and Maja Trochimczyk celebrate the publication of their new chapbooks. Beyond Baroque 681 Venice Boulevard, Venice, CA 90291 (310) 822-3006 www.beyondbaroque.org

JUNE 2015

Saturday, June 6th, at 4 p.m. Unbuckled Poetry in North Hollywood hosted by Radomir Luza. “Voices of Survivors” – a joint reading with Ed Rosenthal, author of The Desert Hat and survivor of being lost in the Mojave Desert. 10943 Camarillo Street, North Hollywood, 91602 818-769-1145
http://www.nohoartsdistrict.com/theatres/arts/theatre-unlimited-t-u-studios/6-unbuckled-poetry

Tuesday, June 9th, at 7 p.m. The Palace Poetry Group Presents "Slicing the Bread / Krojenie Chleba"
A Bilingual Poetry Reading  by Dr. Maja Trochimczyk at the DeWitt Community Library, DeWitt near Syracuse, NY 3649 Erie Blvd. East, DeWitt, NY 13214  Tel.: (315) 446-3578 www.dewlib.org

MORE ABOUT THE BOOK

ISBN-10: 1622296877 ISBN-13: 978-1622296873. Available on Amazon, Finishing Line Press, etc.
Published by Finishing Line Press (December 2014)
https://finishinglinepress.com/product_info.php?products_id=2149 http://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2014/07/finishing-line-press-to-publish-slicing.html

DESCRIPTION

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 heardthe 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 in central Poland. Reflections onthe Germans’ brutalkillings of Jews and Poles are followed by insights into the way the long shadow of THE war darkened a childhood spent behind the Iron Curtain. 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.” A fellow Polish-American poet, Linda Nemec Foster praises the “unwavering honesty” and “stark imagery” of Trochimczyk’s poetry that “bear witness to the hate that destroys, to the truth that restores, and to the poetic vision that honors our common humanity.” The Tieferet Prize winner and Poets-Café host Lois P. Jones points out the “vivid and heartbreaking detail” of poems that “will move you to appreciate the simple privileges and necessities of life.” 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.” Poet Sharon Chmielarz concurs: “You will remember the taste of this book.”

On Heartbreaks, Heart Math, and Finding Hearts

What is a heartbreak? Does a heart really break when a loving relationship dies, or someone really dies and leaves us all alone? California poet, Karineh Mahdessian published an anthology of unhappy love poems by women (including one of mine), and followed it by an anthology of unhappy love poems by men, and is now working on the third anthology of poems written by match pairs, a female and a male poet, that have not met before. The results will be available in a new anthology and we will see where all these heartbreaks take us.

If it is only into whining - "poor me, pity me, my baby left me..." - that's not much of a lesson for the rest of us. "So what..." a bystander could shrug and say, bluntly: "get your act together and find a new love, this is not the end of the world...deal with it..."  But what if it were? What if that unique loving connection of two lovers, their hearts beating in unison, created a higher-level value in the universe, what if stars and galaxies were born of this love?

The Institute of Heart Math tells us that our hearts have so much neurons around them they actually have their own "brains" that are guarding and guiding our bodies, our whole selves, without conscious involvement of the real brain. The rhythm of the heart influences our thinking.

The electromagnetic field created by the heart synchronizes with other hearts and creates a powerful energy field.  The magnetic field of a human heart can be measured several fields from the body. The negative emotions create a chaotic pattern in this field, while positive, calm, loving emotions create a smooth, coherent pattern that leads to wellness. Coherent rhythm of the heart based on positive emotions of happiness, acceptance, love, gratitude, serenity, helps the brain create innovative ideas and make good decisions.

In pursuit of positive energy of the heart, I wrote many blog entries on love, roses, and St. Valentine's Day - and gathered the links on a separate page: Love and Roses.  As a dedicated "love-poetry" writer, I have committed the unforgivable sin, unforgivable, that is, for a professional, academic poet - write about emotion, write about the four-letter word, love... Yet, the proliferation of romance books and country songs tells us something about this "dirty word" that serious academic poets cannot use or reflect about if they want to be taken seriously by other serious academic poems and have their work reviewed in serious academic poetry journals. That is: Love is. Love is a force of life.

No, Love is the force of life. Love is the light of life. Love and Light are intertwined: the more loving you are the more enlightened you become. If you reach true wisdom, you also reach true compassion. It all goes together, intertwined, like the couples of humans melded into angelic creatures of eight limbs floating around in Swedenborg's heaven. The union of opposites, merging compassion into wisdom, love into light.

Before we become any sorts of angels and start floating around in any sort of heaven, there's the earth, the here and now. Here's a multitude of loves to be dealing with: love of mothers, love of fathers, love of children, love of grandparents, romantic love, familial love, compassionate love. Love is the glue that holds society together, from a couple, through family into infinity. We are nothing without love. How then, the all-mighty serious academic poets decided that it is not cool, not appropriate, not done, to be sentimental, to be romantic, to be loving in poetry?

If that's the case, I'd rather be non-serious, non-academic and not-mighty poet. I'd rather write cute little trifles that bring smiles to my readers' faces, that make them say, at the end of the reading sigh, all in unison: aaaahhh... How cute is that! Don't you known that this "aaaahhh" means something good? Better than a chocolate heart? More powerful than a gunshot? This is "heart math" - the focus of thoughts and feelings on the one good thing in this life and in the next: Love. Love itself. Love in us. Love around us. Love.

Kathabela Wilson recently edited a new "Poetry Corner" for the Colorado Boulevard magazine, Reflections on Relationships, and added a fragment of my poem "Adorable" to a set of three reflections on romantic love.  She illustrated her story with two of my "heart" photos - that I have been collecting for quite a while, snapping pictures of various heart-shaped things, from cactus, to spray-painted contours on the sidewalk reproduced above.

Since Kathabela only used a portion of my poem, I thought it would be nice to reprint the whole here, in anticipation of February, the Month of Love.

Adorable

… is the word for you.

Yes, you’ve heard me right.

Like a kitten? More a baby golden lab,

A cuddly puppy with huge chocolate eyes

Looking at me with wild affection.

Excited, impatiently waiting to be hugged.

Adorable – as in the French perfume

“J’adore” – but not the flowery kind,

Rather the musky spice

Of your naked body.

Gentle, shy, hopeful, fit, boisterous, 
Persistent, singing carols out of tune,

With muscles flexing under 
The smooth skin. Ready for the home run.

Nice, not naughty, but nice

Through and through.

How do I know? The word appeared

While I was driving down the Five

At night, dozing off, stopping for naps,

Moving on in a blur of hours, miles,

Hills, exit signs and darkness.

I was rushing to be home

When you called. This word floated up

Through the fog of exhaustion

In the lunar landscape of bare hills

Near Avenal State Prison,

The strange topology of your dreams.

Sensuous, sweet, exotic,
Defiant, witty, bewildering,

Alive, soo alive –

Yes, you’ve heard me right.

I've got just one word for you,

For the whole you –

Adorable

© 2015 by Maja  Trochimczyk  (January 2015)

The Tanka Poets on Site had earlier this month a chance to respond to Kathabela's prompt on "romantic relationships, coupling" - with a beautiful artwork by Susan Dobay.  I wrote another sweet little trifle based on the image of loving bliss that Susan so masterfully captured. 

In the meadow 

sparkling with topaz, 

sapphires and opals

your kiss 

gives me wings

Poetry in Translation from English to Polish

At the Foothills  Poetry Festival on January 10, 2015, I read several poems translated into Polish. Even though Polish is my native tongue, I never write in Polish. Actually, I penned just one Polish verse, about a caterpillar sitting on the window-sill and being sad because it was raining and the caterpillar could not go to the movies. Yes, it was a children's verse. That's it. Somehow, poetry comes to me only in English - I started writing to be able to master English and express every nuance of meaning and emotion. I do have great forerunners in doing that - Joseph Conrad, or rather Jozef Konrad Korzeniowski, who became one of the great stylists of the English language.

In poetry - I was fascinated by bilingual edition of Apollinaire, a French poet of Polish descent. My mom had this book with strange experimental poems, letters scattered across the page, streaming down like droplets of rain. Amazing!  Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918) was a French poet and playwright of Polish descent, born Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki. He wrote one of the earliest surrealist plays, The Breasts of Tiresias, was founded in WWI and died in the Spanish flu pandemic.

I'm not dead yet, so there's hope I'll become a better Polish-language poet in time. It is a challenge to render one language in another in prose. Poetry is much harder because the melody and rhythm of the language has to be taken into account, not just the meaning.  My first poems that were published in Polish, in an anthology by the Krak Art Group, were translated by others, Konrad Wilk and Liliana Wilk. I translated my own poems for some other publications, such as Poezja Dzisiaj, in Poland - for a set of emigre poetry edited by Anna Maria Mickiewicz of London.  It is really as hard as pulling teeth for me. What I decided to do was to adapt and paraphrase, keeping the overall meaning and making sure that the Polish-language poem actually sounds like a poem and not a complete mess.

Here are some results.

MEMENTO VITAE      


Pomówmy o śmierci.
Twój ostatni oddech
To koniec – a może nie?
Nie wiesz nic.

Mówmy o ostatnim
Dniu. Co byś zrobił
Gdybyś wiedział?
Kogo byś kochał?
Czy szukałbyś swej najmilszej,
Najgłębszej miłości?
A może byś został wśród bliskich
Których dobrze znasz?
Czy okradłbyśkogoś,
Obrabował, obraził?
Czy zacząłbyś rozpaczać?
Wrzucił listy w ogień?
Gdyby kanwa twej przyszłości
Znikła? I zostałby ci tylko
Dzień? Lub godzina?

Mówmy więc o życiu.
Każdy oddech niesie cię
W taniec minut, sekund.
W rytm serca.

Właśnie tak.  


© 2008 by Maja Trochimczyk  

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
 

O  SZCZĘŚCIU

W domu z witrażami czereśni
usłyszysz jak kot śpi, chrapiąc w komforcie
ręcznie haftowanej poduszki

W domu świeżo ściętych róż
poczujesz jak powietrze zakwita
słodyczą cynamonu i muszkatu

Poczujesz smak miłości
zmieszanej z kroplami deszczu
na patio w mym magicznym domu

Gdzie wszystko, czego dotkniesz,
zmienia się w czyste złoto
szczęścia, które tak dobrze pamiętasz

ON BLISS

In a house of stained-glass cherries
you can hear a cat sleep
snoring into the comfort
of his hand-embroidered pillow.

In a house of fresh-cut roses
you can feel the air bloom
with the sweetness
of cinnamon and nutmeg.

You can taste love
mixed with raindrops
on the patio of my magic house
where everything you touch
changes into pure gold
of bliss, perfectly remembered.


(C) 2006 by Maja Trochimczyk
 

DEFINICJA LITERATURY

Nie chodzi o rozdzielanie zapałki na czworo
Czy liczenie diabłów na okrągłej główce
To wszystko nieważne

Patrz: wschód słońca nad Szczytem Truskawek
I Górą Rozczarowań tańczy na puchatym
Tłuszczyku pierwszych obłoków lata

Zobacz: świetliste linie na płytkim strumieniu
W kanionie błyszczą jak łuski karpia
Czekającego na śmierć w wannie przed Wigilią

Słuchaj: stada wron rozsiadają się na noc
Kanciaste kształty pokrywają czernią gałęzie drzew
Jak klastery, ostre akordy Xenakisa

Widzisz? Wrony kąpią się w rzece, rozciągają
Skrzydła na betonowym nabrzeżu, woda kapie
Dużymi kroplami – one nieświadome, drzemią

Jak wytatuowane, spocone tłumy wakacjuszy
Na zapiaszczonych ręcznikach w Santa Monica ,
Czekające na tsunami, którego nie będzie

Właśnie to jest ważne: spójrz inaczej – nie na siebie
Lecz we wszechświat, nie – na przegrane ambicje
Lecz na miliony gwiazd w galaktykach

Kosmiczne kolizje, wybuchy supernowych
Tysiące niezamieszkałych planet –
Możemy je policzyć, nie możemy dotknąć

Możemy dotknąć, ale nie policzyć
Cieniutkie linie na płatku róży, wyschniętym
w upale pustyni, choć zakwitł dziś rano

Nie o nas tu chodzi – rozejrzyj się dalej
uchwyć co przeminęło, zatrzymaj ziarno czasu
w swej otwartej dłoni – tę iskierkę, chwilę
 

DEFINITION: WRITING

in response to George Jisho Robertson’s essay “Path of Poesis”

It is not like splitting the match in four
or counting devils on its round head –
none of this matters, really

see the sunrise above Strawberry Peak
and Mount Disappointment shimmer
on the puffy underbelly of summer clouds

be dazed by bright ripples on a shallow canyon stream
shining like scales of a carp waiting to be killed
in a bathtub before Polish Easter

listen to the roosting birds at dusk,
the murder of crows covering tree branches
with angular shapes, dense Xenakis chords,

black clusters, dissonant, intense. They bathe
in the river, sit on a concrete bank with wet wings
outstretched, drooping with water, docile

like tattooed crowds resting, sweating
on sandy beach towels in Santa Monica,
waiting for a tsunami that will not come

shifting the gaze is important, from the navel
to cosmos – not how we fail in a multitude of ways,
but what graces hide in galaxies

that collide amidst exploding supernovas,
on thousands of inhabitable planets
we’ll count but never touch –

we’ll touch but never count
the veins on the petals of the rose
shriveling from desert heat, just opened

Not us, then, look around, beyond,
catch what's already gone, hold it
in your hand - the spark, the passing

Maja Trochimczyk © 2012
 

ETIUDA Z CZERESNIAMI



A ja chcę czereśnie
Słodziutkie czereśnie
Chce poczuć ciemne nuty soku
Na mojej skórze
Jak krople deszczowego preludium
W mżawce poranka

W obłoku fortepianu
Wspinam się na czereśnię
Szukam ukojenia wśród kruchych gałęzi
Cieszę się doskonałością czerwieni
Czereśniową muzyką od samego rana

Nasycona, śpiąca
Chowam się w ciemnościach strychu
By łupać orzechy, obierać gorzką skórkę
Odsłaniać biały miąższ
Studium w tonacji C-dur

Smakuję marzenia
Akordy płyną przez szpary
Starych belek wypełnione światłem

To codzienny rytuał mojej babuni
Popołudnie z Chopinem
 

A STUDY WITH CHERRIES

After Etude in C Major, Op. 10, No. 1 and a cherry orchard of
my grandparents, Maria Anna and Stanislaw Wajszczuk



I want a cherry,
a rich, sweet cherry
to sprinkle its dark notes
on my skin, like rainy preludes
drizzling through the air.

Followed by the echoes
of the piano, I climb
a cherry tree to find rest
between fragile branches
and relish the red perfection -
morning cherry music.

Satiated, sleepy,
I hide in the dusty attic.
I crack open the shell
of a walnut to peel
the bitter skin off,
revealing white flesh -
a study in C Major.

Tasted in reverie,
the harmonies seep
through light-filled cracks
between weathered beams
in Grandma's daily ritual
of Chopin at noon.

(c) 2010 by Maja Trochimczyk

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

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

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

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

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

Wniebowstąpienie

                Dla Basi Kozieł Gawroński in memoriam (1947-2009)

Jeśli pójdziesz ulicą Oro Vista w stronę gór San Gabriel

I spojrzysz w niebo, pomiędzy czerwieniejącymi

Liścmi jesiennej jabłoni, zobaczysz sokoła jak krąży

Nad spalonym zboczem, czarnym kikutem drzewa.

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

Drabinie obłoków, mierzy błękitny obszar

Niebiańskiej przestrzeni. Samotnie szuka szczęścia

Ponad całym światem, gdzie sokół rysuje kręgi,

polując na myszy.

Gdyby Basia była tu wraz z nami, naszkicowałaby

Zarys ruchu w swym starym notesie – a obok kształt

Klaczy zbiegającej na dół, po błotnistym zboczu.

Jej grzywa powiewa, gładkie ciało błyszczy

Na tle nagiej ziemi, zdeptanej na miazgę

Wygląda jakby była… jest samą wolnością

Zanim nie zatrzyma jej rdzawy łańcuch płotu.

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

Między ostatnią sałatą i garstką truskawek.

Półkula wiatru przesuwa się nad koronami

Drzew.  Trzepotanie złocistych trójkatów

Porusza granatowe głębie nieznanego nieba.

Rosną gałęzie ginkgo szerząc radość sprzed stuleci.

Basi nie ma. Czymże jesteśmy

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

Dawno temu, gdy dźwięk wiader z mlekiem

Oznajmiał schyłek dnia w polskiej wsi, na dziadków obejściu

Słyszeliśmy echa pogrzebowych dzwonów

Wołających, płaczących – łkanie aż do nieba.

Basi nie ma. Czarna klacz zatrzymuje się

Zadziwiona, zdyszana. Jej grzywa

Wciąż tańczy walca jak fale przypływu.

Spadają liście ginko i jabłoni.

Kręgi sokoła i lotni spotykają się, rozchodzą

Wysoko nad nami, w bieli. Tam obłoki

Otwierają się dla Basi

Aby mogła wejść ze stertą notesów,

Obrazów, przetykanych srebrno-złotą nitką

Znakiem światła, z lusterkami, które potłukła

I dla nas złożyła, byśmy wreszcie dostrzegli, gdzie –

Tu właśnie – jesteśmy.

 Ascension - A Memorial Poem

                                     Basia Koziel Gawrońska in memoriam

If you go down Oro Vista towards the mountains,

and look up between the crape myrtle’s 

reddish leaves, you’ll see a hawk circling 

above charred slopes, blackened gullies.  

Higher, higher, rising to the white stripes

of clouds that measure the blue expanse,

a hang glider flies, looking for happiness,

like the hawk searching for mice.  

If Basia were with us, she’d sketch

the blur of motion in her notebook,

the horse that ran down the muddy slope,

her mane flowing, body shining against the bare 

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

freedom, until the chain-link fence stops her. 

We, too, cherish glimpses of elation,

affection growing in the garden

between strawberries and sage.  

The air cupola shifts above a gingko tree.

The flutter of yellow triangles moves

indigo depths of the sky. Strong

branches spread the joy of centuries. 

Basia’s gone. What are we,

but the leaves turning gold,

catching the last rays of crimson light?

We dance like fireflies at dusk. 

Long ago, when the clanging

of milk pails announced the waning

of the day in a Polish village,

we heard echoes of funereal bells,

calling, ringing out to heaven. 

Basia’s gone. The black mare stops,

bewildered, panting. Her mane

still waltzes like the waves of the tide. 

The gingko leaves fall. The hawk 

and the glider meet and part high up 

where the clouds open for Basia 

to come in with her sketchbooks, paintings, 

her silvery threads of light, and mirrors 

she broke for us to see where we are.