Living in the Moment... Looking, Seeing, Breathing, Picking Mushrooms

Thanks to the lovely hostess, Elena Secota, and friendly poets and musicians the featured reading at the Rapp Saloon was very enjoyable. I even had a bass-guitar accompaniment to some of my poems, including "Look at me..." inspired by Ella Fitzgerald's version of Misty.

Rocky played the melody during the poem's refrains and was silent during the narrative stanzas. It worked very well! The poem itself is published on this blog, as well as in the Loch Raven Review.  My reading of this poem is on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJzzOId3KCY&feature=youtu.be

"Look at me..."

               the dark honey of Ella's voice 

                               filled the valley with a golden sheen

The bike stopped at the red light.

The biker looked at me intently.

All in black leather, he did not seem familiar.

              the dark honey of Ella's voice 

                                 spilled onto the asphalt

The light changed to green. I was touched 

by the brightness in his eyes as he drove by, 

turning his head, clearly off-balance. He stopped 

to gaze at my metallic Honda.  I felt his surprise. 

             the dark honey of Ella's voice 

                               blossomed in an aftertaste of sweetness

I knew he realized who I was, 

the woman he found irresistible again 

and again and again. I wonder if he told 

his girlfriend about our sunny encounter. 

 

          the dark honey of Ella's voice 

                       flowed over the wonderland --

                               the dark honey, oh, the dark honey

The country road led me towards live oak

and grassy slopes, shining yellow and bronze.

There was no hatred, just being alive 

after the storm. I was silent. I had nothing to say.

(C) 2009 by Maja Trochimczyk

 My listeners liked it a lot, but the greatest impact on the audience was made by another, older poem of a more philosophical nature. 

I wrote "Memento Vitae" after the death of a good friend. The title, modeled on a medieval monks' maxim, Memento Mori (Remember Death), means "Remember Life." 

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.

   

Soon after presenting my work to a very gracious audience at what should be called "Poetry Salon at the Saloon," I was on the way to the High Sierras for my first real vacation in years - without the internet, TV, or Blackberry. I was off the grid, wandering around lush mountain meadows and forests, while the Kadafi regime fell and Hurricane Irene was approaching New York. 

A week in the wilderness was a time of tranquility, rest, and spiritual revival. I listened to the breeze singing in the tops of the trees, as they whispered and sighed. I swam in the cold mountain lake every morning, leaving my worries "in my wake" - and I wrote a poem about it. Since it is still unfinished, here is a humorous testimonial to picking wild mushrooms among tall pine trees and delicate aspen.

On Mushrooms 

In the forest of Christmas trees for giants 

I look for the shapes of mushrooms I used to 

Know well – hiding in tall grass under the aspen, 

Beneath piles of pine needles and bark 

Prawdziwek – the true one, 

 The king of the forest, Boletus 

Rules in unexpected places 

Among birch twigs and Douglas fir 

Osaki, Kozaki – his second-rate, 

 Still lovely cousins wait in the shade 

Among manzanita, wild currants and fern. 

Osak

I find bitter, colorful szatans, 

Pretending to be true pale muchomory

My grandma used to kill flies 

In a glass filled with sugar water 

Szatan, inedible lookalike of a Prawdziwek

Psie grzybki (Dog's 'shrooms) have very thin stems, blades under the cup.

Psie grzybki fit for a dog 

That would not eat them 

And twisted, tree-growing huba 

I do not know how to cook. 

My share of mushrooms? 

The toxic lookalikes of true ones! 

That’s all there is in this 

Enchanted forest for me. 

And this is why, my dears, 

I wrote And you read Confessions 

Of a Failed Mushroom-picker.

 Picking mushrooms is a great activity, as it takes your mind off everything, since it requires all the attention you have to spot and claim the mushrooms hidden under pine needles or in the grass. Next year I might be more lucky and actually find some... Besides, I do have to swim around that rocky island in the middle of the lake, with just one pine tree on it!

________________________ 

 All poems and nature photographs (c) 2008-2011 by Maja Trochimczyk. 

Portrait of Maja and Rocky by Elena Secota.