Bench under the cherries in Descanso Gardens, 2014.
The spring is the time of change of generations. So many people are dying. So many babies are being born. Wave after wave, humanity persist on the discovery of what's possible when dealing with matter, nature, life on this planet. So being a part of one wave of humanity, we never know when and how the end will come. Do we? We never know if the angels that watch over us are benevolent or maleficient... We, frankly, don't know anything about anything, or, to put it differently, know nothing about nothing. We just stumble in the dark, trying to make the best choice possible, catch a sunray while we can...
Easter Apocalypsis
~ After "The Discovery of Heaven" by Harry Mulisch
It is coming. The angels know.
They dwell in their Piranesi castles,
twisted spaces where outside
is inside. They are not indifferent.
Not too smart for their own good.
Not cruel. They don’t tell us.
The end is coming, it is near.
Not death, mind you, not that
ugly spinster without its twin.
No. The end of the end. Finis.
The satin fabric of a wedding dress
trails behind the veiled beauty
as she glides towards her beloved.
The river’s end tastes of salt
in its own mouth, opened widely
into the waves of the ocean.
Nothing we can do will stop it.
Just stretch your fingers,
let the water cool your skin.
Why resist? Heraclitus
dipped his toes in this river.
Shape-note singers praised it.
Saints dove in and swam around,
luxuriating in incandescent glories
that passed us by.
The end is coming, flowing
swiftly down the slopes.
Let’s sit on the porch, doze off
in honeyed sunlight,
before it, too, disappears,
transfigured.
Let us believe there will be
light enough inside us -
that kindling of kindness,
a half-forgotten smile -
to keep us afloat in the final flood
coming, coming to erase the world
and remake it, anew,
bejeweled.
(c) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk, published in "Heaven and Hell" issue of The Scream Online.
I recently sent a translation of this poem to be published on the Pisarze.pl porta in Poland. The set included a new, original Polish poem that the editor did not select, so I translated it into English and placed here.
A Rose Is a Rose
Petals, petals, petals,
keep falling, falling, falling,
free, sleepy, fragrant –
rosying, more rosy than the rose,
until only a stem, a dry stalk with thorns
remains in place of bright blossom.
So it is in life - day after day
hours flow away from now into
sometime distant, a long, long time ago –
when the southern sun shone
pure gold in vibrant blue,
a long, long time ago –
before enemy planes turned
the sky into a gray soup
of chemical poisons
and the earth into a fallow field
of aluminum dust in which
Monsanto grains grow alone.
A long, long time ago
a flower opened into a rose
above all roses, a flower of one day
as beautiful as my life –
unique, original, without flaw
Years passed and I collect petals,
petals of memory – In words I cover
the faded skeleton with a vivid robe
of memories of kindness, love, joy –
and the petals, petals, petals
that keep falling, falling, falling
more rosy than the rosiest of roses
(c) 2025
The two favorite paces of mine are my garden, where my roses magically boom, and open spaces with ocean waves and hills on the horizon. I take my kites for a walk on the Oxnard beach or in the mountains, and look up at the astounding, vibrant sapphire sky....
Liquid Opal
I took two butterflies for a walk –
two colorful kites soaring above me
while the ocean waves licked my toes and tried to
tip me over so I’d roll down the soft, sandy slope into
the seaweed meadows and kelp forests beneath. I would be happy
in the eerie underwater light of aqua and aquamarine,
the ocean whisper assured me.
Yet, I resisted, sinking deeper
into the wet sand, holding onto my kites
that floated overhead and pulled me up into the sky,
the pristine, vibrant expanse of the azure. Endless peace.
No sorrows and no secrets.
I look at the filigree patterns
of seafoam lace, shifting playful shapes.
Endless invention. The slowly setting sun colors
the ocean surface with metallic hues of titanium, nickel, chrome
and liquid opal, changing with every wave, every wisp of the breeze.
As evening falls, the waves rise higher,
intersecting, crashing into each other, revealing
their underbellies of pure, translucent jade, before
disappearing into the opaque beige of the sand, mixed with
Summer is the time of doing nothing. Or it used to be, way back when in Poland: when I truly "vacated" my mind after working hard and getting all these "A"s in two parallel high schools - math-physics division of High School No. 33 named after the astronomer Mikolaj Kopernik, - and Music High School named after Jozef Elsner, Chopin's teacher... Two achievements stand out from the high school years - winning the school-level Copernicus Physics competition and defeating all the boys who thought that a girl cannot have a brain (in my freshman year) and getting a tie for the highest score on IQ test at 143 with the school's math genius (in my senior year, when I became the school's only valedictorian, and paradoxically, decided to study music history instead of something practical and useful, like medicine or economics...
So, after burning my brain on problem-solving, math formulas and 3-D "stereometry" I was ready for long hikes in the fields and forests, picking mushrooms and blueberries, making strawberry preserves, arranging wildflower bouquets, and reading the silliest fantasy books and light-weight magazines in the orchard, under trees full of fruit and birdsong. . . Two full months of brainless fun and relaxation. I could add to the list (from my college years) sailing, singing all-night by the bonfire, or (from my childhood) - jumping off the top of hay stacked up in the barn, and meticulously peeling green walnuts - the kernels are really sweet if the yellowish thin membrane is taken off! That latter job was performed on boring, rainy days. Oh, the blessed time of slow living...
Big Tujunga Wash in bloom, May 2024
At this point of my Californian life, I take "mini-vacations" of one day, one afternoon, or just an hour for a walk in the Big Tujunga Wash, wading in the stream, watching the quail quench its thirst without paying any attention to me. I stop and look at the leaves of the cottonwood shaking in the breeze, under the clearest azure sky. I admire the breaking pattern of reflections, tree-trunks shape-shifting on the smooth surface of the wading pool, made by a mini-dam of rocks. (Very controversial, these mini-dams; some people put them up, other dismantle them, and so it goes, on and on). After an hour drive west, I become still and silent in front of the never-ending procession of ocean waves, crashing and crashing and coming back to crash again...
Its songflows around the globe inmurmuringwavesofleaves
thatcaresseachotherand
twirl away in gusts of wind
longingforfreedom.
It is the stem that gives them life, poursnutrientsintotheheart—shapedcottonwoodmarvels.
Itistheconnection,thelifeline
that matters.
We are the leaves on the cosmic tree,
linkedbybrightcordsofenergy—
thecrystallineliquid,goldenlight.
Wedanceinthebreezeoftime.
Wesing
our song of joy— thejoyoflight—
thelightofdawn—
ofhighnoon,ofafternoon’s
goldenhour,waningintodusk—
inthatpeculiarsoap-bubblesky,
ready to burst open and reveal
thevelvetcoatofthenight
with diamond star buttons.
Isitallclearforyou,too?
Haveyoufoundyour
glowingbubbleofthe sky?
I’m here, singing to the singing tree, learningtodancefromstiffleaves
onflexiblestems,instrengthandgrace
of twigs and branches — healing, laughing,
hummingwithme,singing
amiraculous song
of the cottonwood tree.
(C) 2022 by Maja Trochimczyk, published in the "Crystal Fire" anthology (2022).
Alchemy in the Hills
Rarefiedairopensuptoreveal
rocks in the mountain stream, scatteredsparksofreflectedsunrays,
shimmering golden waves of water
spreading in circles from
where Istandonthickgrainsofsand.Iwatch
a wild sunflower unfurl its petals. Ismileattheaerialacrobaticsofsparrows,
orioles
and the small yellow-gray birds of unknown names. The
scents
ofwhitesageandsumacfillthevalley,
ringing with the buzz of a myriad of bees
hoveringaboutcotton-ballarrays
of wild buckwheat. It is not much, butitisenough:rock,sand,andleafenough. Children’s laughter flows
towards me
from another wading pool, upstream.
Theysplashandlaugh,laughandsplash,
amused by every droplet. I rest in the center of my universe, at a
still point
fmyturningworld,whereallelements—
air, rock, sand, water, sunfire— mergeintooneblessingofbeinghere,
sharing this space, this time with
children’s laughter, with lily-white
yucca blossoms stretching to the sky,
and
a single blade of grass guarding
itsspotbetweenstonesonthecreekshore.
(C) Maja Trochimczyk, published in the "Crystal Fire" anthology (2022)
Big Tujunga stream, July 2024
What pastoral beauty, pure serenity, tranquil charm! But the stream has not always been as placid. After rain, it was filled with muddy brown swirls and cappuccino-like foam (video from March 2023, one in a series of four). This muddy river inspired A Ballad of New Heart a while ago, posted on this blog in 2019: https://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2019/02/blog-post.html.
The video of the muddy stream is from March 2024 though, when the stream jumped out of its bed and shifted 50 meters south forming a new bed, cutting out our pathway... This is just an inkling of the immense power of water in motion. To fully grasp this concept, you have to go to the coast and visit the Pacific Ocean. Luckily, it is only an hour away by car; a mere 53 miles... Perfect afternoon of doing nothing, watching the water come in, and out, and in and out. Smaller waves, bigger waves, reaching my toes, leaving too soon, and in and out and on and on... Endless motion, always different, always the same...
(c) 2022 by Maja Trochimczyk, published in "Bright Skies" (Moonrise Press, 2022).
That's where I got to fly my kites. I recently got a new one, three-D parafoil kites without any skeleton in it, the air fills it and gives it the proper shape of a black-and-white Orca, the Killer Whale... The Kitty Hawk website has the most astounding selection of kites...
The daily dose of peace and relaxation may also be found in the spring in my garden. The mockingbird filled it with song in April, May and June. By July, the curious, mechanical screeching of the orioles replaced the melodious voices - they are so beautiful, with gold and black plumage, so that's why their voices are nothing at all. In contrast, the mockingbirds sport camouflage beige-brown hues so they look like rocks on the ground and branches in the trees... But their voices fill the air with beauty....
Rose Garden where Mockingbirds like to sing, May 2024
To Mock a
Bird in Ten Stanzas
I listen to its song every morning,
yet I’m still surprised when it opens
its wings
in flight, moving to a new perch for
the next tune
to claim its territory in my garden.
White stripes on the wings and tail
shine brightly
like a child’s toy, the old-fashioned wiatraczek
twirling in the wind, delighting the
girl
with the beauty of time-space in
motion.
Why am I here? Loving the sounds of
unfamiliar birds,
surprised that I made it so far, to
the shores
of the Pacific, into the depths of the
English language
I only pretend to master—still
unfamiliar after 40 years.
Was this the purpose then
of my mad pursuit
Of happiness? My American, naturalized
birthright?
This feeling of estrangement, of
non-belonging
in the garden, among lush greenery and
warm rose hues?
But peace and tranquility can be found everywhere, even without the songs, without the stream, without the ocean. . . I wrote new poem while looking at my mantelpiece with souvenirs from Poland, Arizona and California....
An Ode to My Heart, or The Ultimate Tribute to Myself
The heart in the middle of my stained-glass souvenir
from Tucson, Arizona, shines opalescent green, more precious
than an ancient jade bracelet of Chinese Empress.
It is carried by twin wings of three feathers each:
—red, orange, and gold on the right,
—the wing of the body, blood and bones,
of my shape and strength in this incarnation—
I am a woman now
—aqua, azure, violent on the left,
—the wing of timeless flight from emotions
into words, into thoughts, into the purest state
of being—intuition—expression—contemplation
I am a human now
My heart is not alone. The ruby-and-amber,
3-D Merkabah star glows on the right — —— — ——
here—the Earth
The pearly white, softest blue, and clear crystal,
double-six-pointed star shines on the left ——————
there and nowhere—Heaven
I’m well protected. I’m well guarded.
I’m well guided on my way through the thicket
of chaotic entanglements in a convoluted mess of desires.
With this heart, with these wings, with these stars
I can rise above the daily turmoil of fabricated news,
spurious pursuits, and needless temptations.
I can be—I am —FREE —to be
myself, to find my true heart—
deeply hidden beneath masks that grew in decades
of conforming to other people’s plans for me—
—do what your parents say
—do what your teachers say
—follow the leader
No, I will not follow.
I will blossom into my own intense, immense,
crystalline star of cosmos, star of order, star of beauty!
The magic star of delight. The brightest star
of all-encompassing Love—for which this word
is woefully inadequate, as if it truly belonged with all the other
four-letter words— Fear—Hate—Shit—Fuck—Death—
No, that’s five letters—
—So, maybe, just maybe, it should be—
Six — DIVINE
Eight — PRESENCE
Ten — PERFECTION
Twelve — TIMELESSNESS
Or, perhaps just Three — WHY
Two — AM
One — I?
Why am I?
Yucca whipplei gone to seed, Big Tujunga Wash, July 2024
It is so good to be sixty-four. My daughter sang me the Beatles' song on the beach, with ukulele, delightful belated birthday gifts during all too rare family encounter. We live too far apart, I do not like calling, the phone traumatized me when I was just four year old - that black box on the wall is my aunt? And the fear persisted, reducing my conversations to 20 seconds - what do you need? Which street corner should I drive up to pick you up? Do I need to stop to buy bread and milk? This sort of thing, not thoughtful, insightful conversations... These are best done in person, in a dialog of souls, during random meetings at poetry readings, champagne lunches, on the beach...
We had a lovely event in our community, Passing of the Laurels to the next Poet Laureate of Sunland Tujunga. My term as PL no. 6 was in 2010-2012; this time Pamela Shea passed the laurels to Alice Pero, both accomplished, graceful, insightful poets.
I brought real laurel leaves in bouquets for poets, and huge artichoke leaves in bouquet of silk flowers, to decorate the stage. Looked pretty enough, they danced in the breeze, making silk blossom seem alive and real. I picked all these leaves and branches from a friend's garden, where I was amazed at the sight of the artichoke plant which made me think of poetry. I told a friend, poet about this experience, and a poem came about. Here it is.
An Artichoke of a Poem
Writing poetry is like growing
artichokes, from a seed of invention,
the code for the unknown, sprouts
an immense plant, with spreading
silvery-green fronds of tender beauty –
poem after poem you spin out and admire,
so proud of your way with words,
constructing verbal edifices
with arduous labor.
The heart comes at the end –
a flower bud no larger than your palm
that does not even open before you pick it
to steam and taste bits of elegance
and sophistication.
Hight above your silver tower of gigantic
soft and spiky leaves – a paradox of a plant,
really, its purpose beyond comprehension –
grows just one artichoke, a golden bud
of a poem where each word is in its place,
each insight so accurate and keen,
it pierces the reader’s mind
with knowing.
You discard abundant, decorative
leaves for compost, to nourish next year’s crop –
just one gourmet treat, an artichoke of a poem,
blooming from so many ornamental words
you string together day after day, until
the mystery
reveals itself
to surprise you
with its inevitable
simple grace –
Well, that was insightful enough for the Poet Laureate of Artichokes and Bay Leaves (another name for Laurels).. . Celebration took a lot longer to organize than to experience. Then it was time to continue the internal dialogue on paper, in a dialog with old, discarded selves. Spring cleaning is good for that.
Spring Cleaning
This morning
I declawed the cactus, cut the spikes
from the tips of agave leaves
so they do not scratch children looking for
chocolate eggs on Easter.
I cleaned out the pantry, sorted out
one bookshelf and my past
carefully discarding useless fears
and fading disappointments.
I filled the crystal bird dish
with water for finches, filled my heart
with affection and delight
I arranged lilacs, and daffodils
into fragrant bouquets, green with
camellia leaves and palm fronds left over
from singing Hosanna in the church.
I arranged mt thoughts
Into a singular clarity of purpose
Tranquil lie the pacific at sunset
With tenderness of immense strength.
Now, I only have to breathe in
noon light, to set old pain,
anger and resentment on fire
expel the ashes in a shower of sparks
with diamond rays so brilliant
they make me into a supernova
a revelation, cosmic, bright –
Cleaning is necessary and healing. The "cleaning" of past emotions and traumas is done once they do no longer hurt, are not painful, just there, fondly remembered, examined and set aside on a shelf of favorite things - ornamental crystal spheres, a mosaic flower vase from Ravenna, a wooden angel from Krakow, a gold and cobalt teacup and saucer of my Mom, children's photos and music boxes. So, after a long, long, long love story, I could finally write its coda.
The Year of Crystal Fire
Soft patter of pink rose petals
falling onto the floor. The scent of French Perfume
in the air. The heartbeat stops. The world ceases its rotations.
I see the light in your eyes shining
through the slit in your motorcycle helmet,
as you pass me on the street. In a millisecond
of recognition you take me in – whole,
serene in turquoise and aqua – then, you look away
far into the past we shared so shamelessly,
beyond measure –
the year of passion
the year of dogs that brought us together
the year of longing
the year of dolphins dancing on salty waves
the year of absence
the year of waiting in darkness –
30-second phone calls answered by a machine
the year of tiger lilies
the year of nine-tailed foxes –
smooth with seduction and delight
Yes, I liked that year the most –
as we grew into our demonic, daimonic selves,
created new galaxies, parallel universes
out of our other-worldly love.
Timelines shift.
The cosmic windows
keep opening and closing.
Soft patter of pink rose petals
on the flying carpet
takes me into
the year of passion
the year of tiger lilies
the year of diamond kites soaring above hilltops
the year of stardust
the year of crystal fire
Remember that our emotions create the world we live in, if I project anger, hurt, resentment, disappointment, regret out to the universe, its cosmic mirror will reflect all these back, so I will get even more reason to feel anger, hurt, resentment, disappointment and regret... But if I project joy, serenity, gratitude and love, I'll be surrounded by even more reasons - people, events, unexpected gifts from cosmos to feel more joy, serenity, gratitude, love. My heart will expand and open. I'll be happy. This "pursuit of happiness" is a guaranteed right in America. How sweet!
