On the Golden Hands of Mercy

What is "mercy"? The Feast of Divine Mercy has recently been added to the Catholic calendar - scheduled a week after Easter, it comes from a series of revelations of Saint Faustyna Kowalska, who brought back the old message of love: Agape, Charitas, Loving-kindness. Many names, one core of welcoming, forgiving - up to seventy-seven times and counting. This too may become a quiant old-fashioned tradition, like crowning the figures of Mary with wreaths of flowers in the Polish countryside, or carrying copies of her venerated icon from home to home, or walking to her shrines in a pilgrimages. Non-Catholics bristle and balk at such excessive displays of popular piety. Some Catholics do, too, with the exception of the immensely popular pulp-fiction writer Father Andrew Greeley, who often wrote in defense of "folk religiosity."

While it is hard to relate to symptoms of "folk religiosity" in one's own spiritual tradition (I never got over the shock of seeing the dried-up tongue of St. Anthony on display in a crystal case in his Basilica in Padua, Italy), it might be even harder to relate to a tradition decidedly not one's own. For me, Buddhism and its various Asian embodiments are as foreign as the tongue of St. Anthony.

I understand, intellectually, that people need sacred imagery to have a tangible connection to the spiritual world. Yet, I feel completely estranged from these visual manifestations of what is destined to be "sacred" and portray the hidden and mysterious aspects of life, yet appears to be crass and vulgar, if not downright bizarre. Of course, the core of Buddhism is as "merciful" and "enlightened" as any major spiritual tradition aiming at individual self-improvement and evolution towards goodness.

Here's a poem I wrote about a sculpture of Quan-yin, a Buddist Boddisathva or "enlightened being" associated with mercy, kindness and forgiveness. The golden sculpture with multiple hands handing various symbolic artefacts is found in the permanent collection of the Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena. I was trying to reach beyond the surface and get to the meaning of these symbolic objects and the core of the message that the sculpture represents - meditation, prayer, mercy... The poem was written for and first read at the presentation of the "Poetry Audio Tour" of the museum's collection in 2009. It was published in the anthology associated with this event by Poets on Site (edited by Kathabela Wilson). Actually, another poem of mine is a part of the Audio Tour itself - "Illuminata" - inspired by a Buddhist crown from Nepal. That poem may be found on the website of the Museum and in other places.


The "Gates of Mercy," or "Arms of Mercy" or "Hands of Mercy" - as the poem below has been called in its various reincarnations - describes the sculpture, yet seeks a hidden meaning in its multitude of gestures. Above is a reading from 2009 posted on YouTube.

The poem was recently reprinted in the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly vol. 53 (Spring 2012), along with poems by 40 other poets. The reading from this Quarterly was held on March 4, 2012 at the Pasadena Public Library, Catalina Branch. I also included the poem in the anthology Meditations on Divine Names. What can I say? I wrote it and I like it...


The Hands of Mercy

The golden hands of Quan-yin
embrace the world, point to the subtle
meaning of wisdom, give us tools
for enlightenment – a jewel
to grant all wishes, a rope
to tie us to the rule of the law
– immutable, gentle, persistent –
a globe to remind us that
the Wheel of Fortune is spherical
– so many ways of falling off –
and a horn to call for help in distress
– wait, you are not alone –

Quan-yin smiles with approval.
There is still time for a shy gesture
of affection, reaching out to caress
the cheeks of the loved one
– you are real, you are here –

Light fills me to my fingertips,
circulates through my veins
dhyana mudra – anjali mudra
My palms open and close.
I smile like the Goddess
of Mercy with veiled eyes,
hands clasped in twin gestures
of meditation and prayer
open – closed – open –

NOTE: Quan-yin is a Buddhist deity (bodhisattva) of compassion, sometimes portrayed with multiple arms to represent her various attributes. Dhyana mudra is an open-palmed gesture of meditation, Anjali mudra is a gesture of touching hands in salutation, or benediction.

On Manna, the Dead Sea, and the Divine

My final project as the Sixth Poet Laureate of Sunland-Tujunga is an anthology of poetry on religious and spiritual themes, entitled Meditations on Divine Names (Moonrise Press, 2012).

Almighty, Loving, All-seeing, Compassionate, Silent, Omniscient, Forgiving, Knowing, Merciful, Graceful, Beautiful, Kind, Sublime, Absolute, Patient, Just, Wise, Awesome, Sovereign, Peaceful, Hidden, Perfect, Holy, Giving, Unknowable, Eternal, Light, Love, Life, Power, Supreme, Lord, Goddess, Mother, YHWH, Christ, Yehovah, Allah, Shekinah, Krishna, Lada…

The “divine” of the title is a word introduced into English in the 14th century; it stems from the Latin “divus” or “god.” This word, in turn, is related to the ancient Sanskrit term “deva” meaning “deity” and originating in the Proto-Indo-European “diwos” (“celestial” or “shining”). “Divine” pertains to, or relates directly to “deity.” The ancient Greeks and Romans had many different gods, who ruled over various spheres of existence. The 21st century world has many gods, too, though monotheistic religions predominate, at least in numbers.

The mystery of the divine may be approached from many directions. The heart of the visible matter is invisible. Science makes inroads into understanding how matter works, but the more you read about science —especially at the outer ends of the spectrum, in the areas of quantum physics and cosmology—the more it sounds like religion. This last word, oft maligned and distorted into fanaticism and hatred, actually focuses on connections between people, between humans and the divine.

The word “religion” stems from a Latin root, variously translated as “respect for what is sacred, reverence for the gods,” or “obligation, the bond between man and the gods.” St. Augustine connected this word to “re-reconnecting” (“re-ligare”); contemporary theologians emphasize the connectivity inherent in all religion. Connection to what? Typically, religions connect like-minded people into groups sharing the same beliefs, languages, and customs. Their dogmas may become immutable, fixed, and hostile to everything and everyone outside the chosen group. Remember the wars between the Protestant and Catholics in Ireland? During the tumultuous period of Reformation the whole European continent was in flux. It still is...

Religions, at their core, also connect people with the Ultimate Source of Life, the Higher Being, the Absolute, the One... Here, despite the divisiveness of language, similarities begin to emerge. Poets, who belong to different religions or religious denominations, see the manifestations of the divine in many aspects of life: personal prayer, religious ceremonies, singing of psalms, family relationships, nature, sun, bread making, dying, loving, and love making. They admire the colors of the sky and the liquid nourishment of water. They praise the clarity of mountain air and the gentleness of human touch. They cope with the loss of a loved one and cherish the affection that reveals the essence of the Divine. From the four letters of YHWH to Lada or Pele, the anthology catalogs some unusual divine names. Poets reflect on the act of naming, describe the manifestations of the divine, and dispute the very possibility of knowing of our God(s). They give testimony to their hopes and beliefs, and share what they find beautiful and inspirational. There is darkness around and death, but the poets look for ways to ascend above the turmoil and dreariness of the profane; they seek illumination.

The 136 poems by 62 poets are arbitrarily arranged in ten sections: Naming, Names, Earth, Water, Air, Fire, He, She, Being, and Loving. Simultaneously, the Pythagoreans’ perfect number of ten is organized in five pairs: naming names, earth and water, air and fire, he and she, being and loving. The framework eschews conventional divisions into Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, or Light and Darkness. Similarly, there is no separation of poems into those belonging in different religious denominations and spiritual traditions. Yahweh, Christ, and Allah, or Father, Son and the Holy Spirit of the great monotheistic religions appear alongside less known deities worshiped by Hindus and followers of Kabbalah, Scientology, Wicca, and Sukiyo Mahikari. The Bread of Life, the Unnameable Absolute, and the Goddess… Themes are intertwined in each poem and new meanings arise from the juxtaposition of distant religious traditions. Sometimes, additional thematic threads arise within a theme—bread, light, birth, mountains, solitude, and joy... Many poems are about love and acceptance; many focus on creation, charity, serenity, gratitude, and contemplation.

This project, initiated in 2008, has grown to its final scope in four years, thanks to the contributions and encouragement by many poets. The original idea stemmed from a meditation during a workshop on Rumi and spiritual practice. For thirty minutes, under the guidance of a Sufi mystic, I meditated on a Divine Name I selected. Puzzled by the interplay of absences and revelations in my life, I thought of “Hidden” and came home with a very strange poem about the mysterious, unknowable God, Playful (Via Negativa).

Each life is different and each person has an individual way of experiencing the world and sharing this experience. My way to religion and to meditating on divine names was not simple. I was raised as an atheist, went through a dramatic and traumatic conversion in my late twenties, and was baptized at the age of 30. I was not born into my community of faith. I could have become Jewish, or Baptist, or Eastern Orthodox… Instead, I ended up as an usher in a Catholic church, attending the Mass every week. How on Earth could this have happened?

My path is unique and I feel an obligation to express it. Sometimes, I recognize an echo of my own spiritual experience in another poet’s words (T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets!). In turn, my experiential truth may resonate in someone else. It is good to know we are not alone. It is good to reach beyond “Either/Or” of Kierkegaard’s, stop seeking differences and divisions.

I am grateful to all the poets who shared their thoughts with me and who made this anthology such a special, light-filled volume. I am particularly glad that I managed to persuade members of my poetry groups to join me: the whole Spiritual Quartet (Taoli-Ambika Talwar, Lois P. Jones and Susan Rogers), and the whole Village Poets Planning Committee (Joe DeCenzo, Marlene Hitt, Barry Ira Geller, and Dorothy Skiles). I am thankful for their words and their faith in me.

As a sample of poems in the anthology, I'll use two of my own. The first poem, “Dead Sea Alive” describes a visit to a San Diego Museum where I saw an exhibition of fragments from the ancient manuscripts found near the Dead Sea. Having seen many medieval manuscripts and the Gutenberg Bible in the past, I was not prepared for the impact of the emotional encounter with shreds of papyrus over two thousand years old. The words are still alive, even though the material documents are barely there.

The second poem, “Manna” is about the experience of Communion, a ritual of Christians who are spiritual cannibals and eat their God to become fully Divine. Manna, of course, is the miraculous angelic food that Israelites found on the ground during their forty years of Exile in the desert. Each morning, they had to gather and eat it fresh. If they tried to store it, it went bad the next day. This manna is the symbol of spiritual renewal, the ultimate "refreshment." However, "manna" in Polish refers to "kaszka manna" - a wheat cereal cooked in milk for hot breakfast, and later served in cubes with fruit or jam. It is also used to give texture to Polish cheesecakes and, though kind of boring by itself, becomes indispensable and nourishing. "Manna" for Catholic is an image of daily Communion, the white bread that needs to be eaten each morning, or, at least, every week. This is our bread of angels.

Both poems have previously been published elsewhere (in an online journal Quill and Parchment and in my book Miriam’s Iris, respectively), but I like them, and hope my readers like them, too.



Dead Sea Alive


An archipelago of broken words
A mosaic of ill-fitting pieces
Torn ribbons with angelic voices
Coded by crooked signs

Scholars decipher, assemble patterns
The dust of ages obscures the meaning

Here: “Blow your trumpets, slay the guilty”
There: “He heals the badly wounded, makes the dead live”
I see: “YHWH” - four letters in an ancient script
I hear: “Halleluiah!”

Two thousand years, two hundred days
And two hours. I too offer a sacrifice
Of my mind to the eternal presence

The angels are here with us
Hovering on iridescent wings
Just above red boxes with fire blankets
Just beyond a row of glass screens
With miniature shreds of holiness inside

© 2009 by Maja Trochimczyk


 

Snow Alight

love falls on me

gently

like snow from high sky

I stand here

waiting for snowflakes

of communion

I look into the eyes

of the man

who holds love

my love

in his hand

abyss calls to abyss

ocean’s depth touches

the deepest core

of my sorrow

my bread and body

“Noli me tangere”

said the One called Rabbuni

my eyes close

whiteness dissolves

this love will shield me

I count my blessings

bless the Holy Name

NOTE: “Noli me tangere” = “Do not touch me” 

              (Latin translation of John 20:17)

© 2008 by Maja Trochimczyk
 
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The text is based on the editor's introduction to the anthology. The Meditations on Divine Names, published by Moonrise Press, will be available in all major online bookstores. In the meantime, it is already available on Lulu.com The full list of poems is posted on moonrisepress.blogspot.com

On Pursuit of Happiness - from Paris to Monrovia

For the Voice of the Village, February 2012 issue, I wrote the following column. My term as Poet Laureate of Sunland Tujunga is coming to an end, so I thought about what happened in the last two years. . .

Poetry … in pursuit of happiness

As a new citizen (American for mere two years), and a resident of Sunland for just fifteen years, I was delighted to have been elected the Sixth Poet-Laureate of Sunland-Tujunga in March 2010. English is my second language, so it was quite an honor. During my “Passing of the Laurels” Ceremony in April I was wearing a silly grin almost the whole time: I was so excited! I picked my motto for the two years in office to be “Poetry ... in pursuit of happiness."

There are many rights enshrined in constitutions of different countries; only in America do we have the pursuit of happiness. Many people came here for that reason and I am one of them. As a professional music historian, I spent years finding out and explaining what others thought – why the composers created the music they did, what did they try to say… It was – and is – a worthwhile occupation, but there is no comparison with writing my own poetry, about what I think and, what’s at the core of my being, what I feel. “The moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself” (e.e. cummings).

I feel calm and safe when wondering in Tujunga Wash, taking pictures and scribbling notes for my poems. There are so many things you can say about the sublime beauty of the mountains and the river. I feel proud to have found a place where I am at home among friends, where I can be, for once, for all, “nobody-but-myself.” Sunland-Tujunga is a wonderful, homey, friendly community, with amazing history and talent. The natural surroundings, the colors of clouds in the sky, the infinite variety gardens – this is all breathtakingly beautiful, but the greatest treasures of our neighborhood are its people. This is why we have Watermelon Festivals, Bolton Hall Museum, Village Poets Readings, Fourth of July Parades, art exhibitions, and community papers. Time for some “love poems” for our neighborhood… one illustrated with my photo, and one with a painting by Susan Dobay, Musicscape 12. (www.susandobay.com)

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I already posted here one of the two poems from the column, "My Sky" (I live inside a painting by Rene Magritte...), which I had illustrated with a variety of photographs I took in the Tujunga Wash and in my garden.

The other poem belongs in a set of four inspired by paintings by Susan Dobay. These particular light blue paintings are incredibly happy and whimsical. Looking at them fills me with happiness that can be felt but rarely. Reading poems with music by Rick Wilson improvised to accompany my voice was one of these unique, unforgettable moments of complete and perfect happiness. The sun was golden, in that four o'clock hour that fills the day with ripeness of things well done. The friends as attentive as they could be. The host, Susan Dobay was asking impatiently if I'll read my "Awakenings" that she's so fond of... Kathabela was spectacular in her light turquoise outfit with shiny mirrors on the skirt. Rick's playing was inspired. I think that making art makes life worth living.

Thanks to my poetic and artistic friends, I have found happiness in Sunland and Monrovia. The painting for this poem is above and on the cover of the book, "On Awakening" edited by Kathabela Wilson for Poets on Site and including poems by many poets, inspired by seven of Susan Dobay's paintings. That one, of a large tree, reminded me of a children's game. . .


See, how we dance?


Simon says – “grow”
and our roots reach for water
our branches for the sun

Simon says – “blossom”
and our pink petals open
in a gold mist of newness

Simon says – “sing”
and we let the breeze whisper
with hummingbirds, jewels, leaves

Simon says – “fly”
and we turn and turn again
in swirling clouds, voiceless music, dancing

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Hilda Weiss and Wayne Lindberg of Poetry LA have recently visited Bolton Hall Museum in Tujunga, to record Featured Reader Just Kibbe and local poets. As one of the co-hosts of the Village Poets Open Reading on January 22, 2012, I was recorded as well.

I presented my Three Postcards from Paris which will appear in Quill and Parchment later this year. The postcards are about my visit to Paris on the occasion of the Maria Szymanowska Conference in October 2011. There's nothing about Chopin in my postcards, except that he lived in Paris and I walked some of the same streets. I had visited his grave at that time, but I did not write a poem about it.

Poetry L.A. posts videos on YouTube and links on their website. Thanks a lot to Hilda and Wayne! This is their labor of love. They are not paid for it and they spend countless hours documenting the state of poetry in L.A.

As for the fruits of my own labor, I had already rewritten the central poem and reorganized them, moving the first one to the end. Maybe it will not be moved, in the final version. I'm still figuring out the flow. The current one is fine, too - ending on a humorous note.

Maja - Three Postcards from Paris

A Haiku for New Year 2012

A Haiku for 2012



black water dragon

in a nimbus of danger

we laugh to freedom




© 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk

Christmas Wishes with Roses and Ivy

It is that time of the year again. Christmas. The stack of cards waits for my pen and a moment of stillness. Maybe an afternoon on the sunny patio would allow me to reconnect with friends and family? There is so much to do, so many parties to go to. I have to remember not to start thinking of holiday-ing as a chore, one more thing to do when there is no time, no time at all. It is nice to send cards, at least to sign them, if not write something original for every addressee. We are all interconnected through a network of thoughts and affection, but tend to forget about its importance in days filled with the daily business of busy-ness.

I was asked to read some poems at a party and realized that I have not written my annual Christmas poem yet. It came to me in the rain, when I could barely see the road ahead and the sky was heavy with darkness.



Did you know?

Some Christmases are rainy
Tears fall from overcast sky
On lonely crowds in hospitals
And prison yards

Sometimes Christmas is icy
Frozen under the pale moon
Changing faces into lifeless
Shadows at night

Some Christmases are scarlet
And green like fir garlands and hearts
Warmed by barszcz and hot chocolate,
Evenings by the fire

Sometimes Christmas is white
Snowflakes melt on my gloves
The thin wafer of opłatek we break
Shelters us in good wishes

Some Christmases are sparkly
With the tinsel of laughter
Giggling children unwrap gifts
Magic in the morning

My Christmas is golden
Like that first star of Wigilia,
Warm kisses with kompot and kutia
Blessings under the tree

© 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk

I paired this poem with a photo I took this October at the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. I liked the open window, looking out through the multitude of shapes and colors onto a simpler, luminous world.



The picture became the cover of my Christmas card, and I paired it with the collage for the poem of "Rosa Mystica" - already posted here, but included below in the image pages. I also reprinted my last year's holiday poem, "Rules for Happy Holy Days" as a reminder about the importance of holidays. This poem was written for my last year's Christmas wishes. These Rules are timeless.



Rules for Happy Holy Days

Don’t play Christmas carols
at the airport. Amidst the roar
of jet engines, they will spread
a blanket of loneliness
over the weary, huddled masses,
trying not to cry out for home.

Don’t put Christmas light on a poplar.
With branches swathed in white
galaxies, under yellow leaves, the tree
will become foreign, like the skeleton
of an electric fish, deep in the ocean.

Clean the windows from the ashes
of last year’s fires. Glue the wings
of a torn paper angel. Brighten
your home with the fresh scent
of pine needles and rosemary.

Take a break from chopping almonds
to brush the cheek of your beloved
with the back of your hand,
just once, gently. Smile and say:
“You look so nice, dear,
you look so nice.”

© 2009 by Maja Trochimczyk



Since the year 2012 is supposed to be the last year of this Earth in existence in its present form, I figured I'll reprint, as a farewell of sorts, the "Apocalypsis" poem written for Easter, as well as some lovely poems that I enjoyed writing and reading this year: "A Jewel Box Sunrise" and "On Mushrooms." Below is the complete card with all the poems I selected to share for the holidays this year.














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Poetry, photos and design (c) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk

You can print out a little booklet from the .jpg images of the poems, each stretched to a full page 81/2 by 11 in., sideways.

A Season Sparkling with Love

I spent the morning taking pictures of liquid amber leaves and all sorts of other colorful tree leaves or petals that shone in the sun. I love the sparkling beauty of sunlight. The pictures are not ready yet, but I found a poem about fall colors, so here it is.

As everyone knows, November in California is the equivalent of September in Canada, and our fall display of color ends only at Christmas. The first daffodils are coming out already, confused.



The Way

Do you like the poplars?
They line up the streets
cutting across sugar beet fields
on the outskirts of Warsaw
The yellow heart-shaped leaves
tremble in the breeze, glisten
like molten metal after the rain

The California poplars stand straight
and tall, guarding the way
Two fence poles gossip
The fields sparkle with color –
Fuchsia, rusty orange,
Burnt mauve, and bronze

The summer grass is dead
The rocks bruised purple
By the dying sun
Only the sky, blessed by honey,
Shines with the mandarin certainty
Of coming home


Would you like to know everything about everything? How about narrowing the focus and knowing just one thing, right now? Is knowing it all better than loving it all? Or some of it? As far as we can see? Astronomers keep finding clouds of matter further and further away. Billions of years. The seventh-billion human was born recently, or so we heard. Could you love seven billion people, even in theory? Possibly not. The numbers are too overwhelming.

Holidays give us a perfect opportunity to leave billions of people to their own resources, abandon trillions of stars spread across billions of light years to their unimaginable cosmic scale, and to focus on the people we are closest to, those we are connected with either biologically, through genetic links of kinship, or by choice, through that strange thing called "love."

It is probably because I got so completely disconnected from my "kinship network" and the safety of my genetically-predetermined, linguistically-defined environment, that I like writing about love so much. Writing is a substitute for doing, Freud knew that. At one point, I tried to define the various types of love, from desire to acceptance. The word itself is completely overused and extremely hard to put in a poem.

There is no greater love than... Love your neighbor... Do you love me? ... Mommy loves you...I love this necklace... I love turkey?

What does a single person without a single family member nearby do on Thanksgiving or Christmas? Mope around? Try to score an invitation to someone's party? Write? I wake up early and look at the sky above the hills outside my window. I make up memories of non-existent past. They are nicer than the real ones, I'm sure of that.

A Jewel Box Sunrise

Silver cirrus clouds float west
Like shoals of fish in an amethyst sky.
Sun rises over a wintry orchard.
The smooth zeppelin of poetry
Carries me above the tangle of dreams.
I rest, bruised after stumbling
Through twisted roots, broken tree limbs.

Frost grows flowers on window panes.
See how they dance? You nod
Over your morning tea. “You are welcome”
I smile at your questioning gaze.
My grandma’s gold-rimmed china cup
Warms your hands. Steam rises
From the bright topaz liquid.

“Tea flows in your veins, sweets,”
You say, laughing. The helium of words
Fills the skin of the moment.
“Come here” – you wrap
Your arms around my waist.
A kiss of herbal fragrance.
Dawn blossoms into lucid light.

We go outside, stand under
Snow-covered cherry trees.
They sigh and crackle. Their sap
Rises deep beneath the bark.
The white balloons of our breaths
Dissipate through cold air crystals.

I’m glad I waited so long
For my jewel box sunrise.

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The "Jewel Box" poem came from the coldness of an air-conditioned room and being really, and I mean, really bored with an endless meeting. This is why I'm never bored. In transit, on a plane, waiting for a red light - if I find a bit of paper of any kind, I just write, write, write. Is it a better way of spending time than doing anything else, like fretting and complaining? Possibly. The results are here to stay.

Pity the modern chefs of astounding inventiveness; we can never eat twice what they cook. Pity the musicians before the advent of recordings; we could never listen twice to their voices. The notation was, and is, just a skeleton of a music that came to life under their fingers, with the air they breathed.

But pity the poets? We still know the names of Sappho, Dante, Keats. The words change meaning as the river of language flows, like lava, through centuries. The liquid, effervescent stream shifts, evolves, and transforms itself in response to the new landscape it encounters. We translate and re-translate ancient poetic gems into new linguistic guises. Poetry lives, sparkling with love. It is the mirror of the spirit, life itself.



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Photos of public art at Washington Dulles International Airport, and of a palm frond in Sunland, California (C) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk

Poetry (c) 2011 by Maja Trochimczyk. "The Way" was inspired by a painting "Road Home Olancha" by Trish Shaheen, a part of the Poets on Site project associated with the "Painting My Way" exhibition at APC Gallery in Torrance, September 2011. Published in the Poets on Site anthology, edited by Kathabela Wilson.

On Szymanowska's Satin Slippers

I went to Paris in September, came back changed in October. An astounding city, full of history and charm. My purpose was to talk about Maria Szymanowska and visit and photograph places associated with Chopin. I found his grave and put a poem from "Chopin with Cherries" there. I went to the church where his Funeral Mass was held, with Mozart's Requiem (St. Madeleine) and I wondered about his empty chair and white evening gloves at the Bibliotheque Polonaise near the Notre Dame Cathedral.

The purpose of my trip was to give a paper about Maria Szymanowska, a Polish virtuoso composer-pianist, who preceded and inspired Chopin with her brilliant style, etudes, mazurkas and songs... Szymanowska (1789-1831) died young, too; Chopin was 39 when tuberculosis finally defeated him. Szymanowska - at 42 - went quickly, of cholera in St. Petersburg. But first she managed to enchant Goethe, who wrote for her a poem entitled "An Madame Marie Szymanowska (Aussohnung)." Known as "Aussohnung" (Reconciliation) it was included in the Trilogie der Leidenshaft, inspired by the sixty-year-old poet's tragic infatuation with a young girl, Ulrike. Szymanowska's music, her empathy and beauty helped the aging poet return to his senses. (I write about recent research into her life and work discussed at the Maria Szymanowska Colloque in Paris in my "Chopin with Cherries" blog).

At the conference, I presented the first version of my poem about Szymanowska. After making some changes, I read it for the workshop of Westside Women Writers group and I received comments from Millicent Borges Accardi, Kathi Stafford, Georgia Jones-Davis and Sonya Sabanac. Here's the third version of this work in progress. I want to capture her life as I see it - she was dazzling, inspiring, enchanting, and disappeared all too quickly.



The Shooting Star

Reflections on Maria Szymanowska (1789-1831)

“He brought a horse to her bed, that’s why” – they said.
“No, he did not let her play. She left…”
“Not the only one, mind you.”
Rossini wrote: “Madam,
I equally adore your modesty and talent.”
“At least she was a mother – that redeemed her.
Three children, two daughters, that sort of thing.”
“Did she love them? Was she doting?”
“Didn't she leave them for three years
To play her music?”

“Did she travel alone?” Always with her sister –
Paris, London, Dresden, Marienbad.
Devastated by Ulrike’s youthful charms,
Goethe found comfort in Maria’s nocturnes,
Reconciliation in the kindness of her voice.
He saw Das Ewig Weiblich.
He wrote Die Aussöhnung.

A Roman Goddess?
Wearing the latest London fashions?
She was the Queen of Tones for Mickiewicz,
the Polish bard. A friend of Prince Vyazemsky.
The Court Pianist of the Tsarinas.
A Warsaw brewer’s daughter,
She rose to royal heights,
Shining with the brilliance of her art.

She was elegant, refined
In her pristine muslin gowns,
With sleek belts and jewels.
Her satin slippers dared to
Outlive her by two hundred years.
They sit on a shelf, laughing.
She’s gone. Her daughters,
orphaned in a fortnight of cholera,
Are gone, too. So are
Their daughters’ daughters.

What remains of this dazzling life?
A gold bracelet with a cut sapphire?
A handful of songs, etudes and dances
Scattered along the way? Sweet melodies
Frozen in the air above vast plains
Of snow drifts and tundra?
The sparks of a shooting star
Falling across our dark winter sky?




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Lithograph based on a portrait by Maria Szymanowska by Jozef Oleszkiewicz, 1825. Framed print from the collection of Bibliotheque Polonaise in Paris.

Maria Szymanowska's satin evening slippers and an image of Warsaw's Grand Theater of Opera and Ballet. Paris, Bibliotheque Polonaise.

Portrait of Maria Szymanowska by Aleksander Kokular, Rome, 1825. Copy, original in the collection of the Adam Mickiewicz Museum of Literature, in Warsaw, Poland.