When it Rains... And the Emperor Wears No Clothes... Write a Poem

 

It rains. It was supposed to be some apocalyptic Hurricane Hillary, but what we got is lots of water for our tired Southern California gardens. The stream in our canyon is also filling up. It changed its course last winter, taking out our pathway with it, I wonder if it will shift again. The Big Tujunga Canyon, is indeed "big" and the stream can pick and chose where to go... In my garden, I'm filling out containers with rainwater - I bought a bunch of plastic boxes at Big Lots and will have water for at least three rounds of going from rose bush to rose bush with a bucket. After the winter rains, unusually abundant this year, my DWP water and power bill dropped from an average of $350 to $191 for two months, the lowest I've seen since I moved into this house 25 years ago. I stopped using the hose (the sprinklers died long ago), and had lovely exercise watering my garden every second day with the rainwater I saved from the winter storms... 

So it is time to look at poems. I've been so busy with other people's poetry in the Crystal Fire anthology (2022), and in the California Quarterly - ensuring the issues can go to print, but occasionally also editing as I did 49/2 - that I have not written anything of my own. But, wait, I forgot: I actually penned a ballad inspired by current denialist movement... denying biology and common sense. Our times resemble, more and more, the story from that Andersen's tale about the naked emperor ... Only a child could see it. Aren't we all exhorted to become like children? Able to see? So here it is...

A Chromosome Ballad

 

The mothers of mothers of mothers

     plant seeds, care, and give birth.

          The fathers of fathers of fathers

                 plant seeds, care, and protect.

The mothers and fathers

     and sisters and brothers

          come here in organized waves.

The mothers and fathers

            and sisters and brothers

                   leave Earth after passing their tests.

 When grandmas and grandpas have learned how to live,

   when moms, dads, aunts, uncles shared wisdom as if

      they each had a thousand-year-old treasure chest

         they could open with DNA keys at their best

                     matched in pairs XX and XY, 

                        intertwined XX and XY

               strand after strand unwinding in pairs

               to give you your eyes of hazel or gray,

         your hair blond or brown, skin of varied hues,

   your brilliance and talents, your gifts and your moods.

       

Remember the pathways

         they came on and left—

                  the mothers and fathers

                              of east and of west.

It was published in the Academic Questions of the National Association of Scholars, Spring 2023.  My company was quite illustrious: William Wadsworth, John Milton's Sonnet No. 19, a poem by Catharine Brosman Savage ("Old Fashioneds"). Two women and two men; two classics and two newbies... 

The poem I included in my issue of the California Quarterly Vol. 49 No. 2 was partly posted here in September. Now, after its official publication, it is time to publish the whole. It was a lovely issue with an amazing cover. Since my artist had a family tragedy to deal with and could not send her works in time, I asked for permission to use a cropped photo taken by my son-in-law, Chris Hannemann, during a family walk in San Diego Botanical Gardens. In a play area, I blew soap bubbles to amuse my 18-month-old granddaughter. . . I can truly consider myself a co-author of this photo: my breath is inside these bubbles, immortalized for all to see...

This poem is inspired by a gift from my son, who got me Roku, so I could watch what I want after we all gave up on Netflix. I found the whole bunch of Chinese historical and fantasy dramas, with twisted plots, flying ballet of impossible martial arts, and amazing costumes and decorations - quite a different world. No porn, no torture, no twisted values - instead, bravery, honor, respecting family and loving the homeland, nobility, heroism and romance... What's not to like? Maybe there is something... I picked the name of Luo Jin as a co-star of Princess Weiyoung, where he was romantically coupled with his real-life wife, Tiffany Tang. Their chemistry on screen in this fantasy fiction was so touching! 

I Fell in Love with Luo Jin

On the screen, his eyes are smiling,

when a corner of his mouth lifts up 

in a rakish smirk. I love his bravado— 

as he saves maidens from hungry demons,

flies through the air while shooting arrows,

suspended from steel cables, cranes—

in a deceptive, engineering feat.

I am in love with Luo Jin,

tenderly plucking guzheng strings,

wistfully gazing at the midnight sky,

or into eyes of his on-screen lover,

his real wife. Betrayal? Never!

He gives me of what I can only dream.

Like me, billions of others love Mr. Jin,

seduced by the grand illusion of the film.

His sword ballet is an aerial dance—

killing without the stench or rot 

of corpses—purest joy—Oh, Luo Jin!

It is hard work to star in Chinese drama—

learning to fight, ride horses, swim,

give orders with a motion of one brow,

threaten by a slight narrowing of eyes—

subtle, grim. The actor must obey 

directors, bosses, toe the party line—

deny the genocide, ignore the Uyghurs,

harvested organs, protests, Falun Gong.

Alas, he must, he must—deny the facts,

spread visions of imperial glory, serve. 

the Emperor who may send courtiers, 

whole clans even, to death on a mere whim! 

(Familiar? Always…)

Stoic in pain, serene in bliss,

he’s gentle, modest, as love fills

his expressive eyes. What do lovers do?

Embrace each other under a firework-

blazing sky, make paper lanterns

that float away on a summer breeze,

carrying the wishes for what could not be,

fly diamond kites above the verdant valley,

stroll, holding hands, through swirls

of falling petals—sweet cherry 

blossoms of eternal spring.

(c) Maja Trochimczyk, First published in California Quarterly, Vol. 49, No. 3 (Summer 2023). Another occasional poem, inspired not by the news, but by a history project that took a lot of time since 2000, that is writing the 50-year history of Helena Modjeska Art & Culture Club, arose from my reflections about the biography of the Club's founder, Leonidas Dudarew-Ossetynski (1910-1989), an aristocrat, actor, director, teacher, journalist... With lots of materials from his daughter Valerie Dudarew-Ossetynska Hunken, I'm writing out his first ever biography. The first version for the Album 50-lecia Klubu Kultury im. Heleny Modrzejewskiej (2021) had some omissions. The English version is forthcoming in the English book based on the assortment of materials in the edited Album, entitled Celebrating Modjeska in California. It will be expanded in a volume of Ossetynski's own studies and lectures. A fascinating, neglected, misunderstood person, with politics mixed into the arts that caused a rift in the memory of his achievements. The basics are clear. The achievements not to be denied or hidden any more. 

 

Lucy Dzierzkowska, portrait of Leonidas Dudarew-Ossetyński, lost, previously in family collections. Photo from the archives of Valerie Hunken. The military uniform is now on display at the Polish Museum of America in Chicago.

The Prophet

  

~ For Leonidas Dudarew Ossetyński (1910-1989), 

   founder of Helena Modjeska Art & Culture Club

 

And they say he looked like a bum –

barefoot, with long white beard and disheveled hair –

this “Lithuanian” prince,  Boyar Dudarew, kniaź.

Adam in a Christmas pageant. Black-leather biker.

On screen – a guru, villain, hero, larger than life.

 

An exemplar of cruel fate suffered by millions – 

deported, exiled, vilified, like him removed 

from the living fabric of their nations

by winds of history – not random, and not blind – 

Purposeful in dispersing leaders of afflicted nations, 

destroying the most talented and bright.

Bravely, he fought Germans in two armies. 

Captured, he escaped from a war prisoners camp.

A double veteran, after death, was finally honored. 

His whole life – of a fierce patriot serving Poland,

A glorious idea, far greater than himself. 

 

Requiem for all victims of all wars  

at the Music Center? – a ten-year project! 

Inspiring dramas for his Modjeska Players? 

Through him Mrożek’s Emigranci came to life.  

Witkacy’s Matka awed critics, won ten prizes. 

 

A correspondent of Prince Giedroyć’s journal,

known in Paris, London and New York, 

it is L.A. he chose as site for Polish culture –

a dream of survivors, creative, noble, proud. 

With stage success of Modjeska as a model,

he brought musicians, actors to play and dance.

His goal: so far on the antipodes, to build,

defend and cherish an outpost of high culture, 

the heritage of a nation that too many willed to die. 

 

Survival is the skill of those who can endure.

Resilience is the talent of refusing to give up.

Wild Leonidas, with long white beard and hair,

was a true prophet for all émigrés and exiles, 

dispersed by winds of history, without mercy,    

scattered throughout the strange, stark world. 

Leonidas Dudarew-Ossetynski's portrait, a favorite of his daughter. 

Not All About Roses... Dreams, Gardens, and Clearing Karma in the Spring

 How vivid are your dreams? Mine are so intense that I'm sometimes completely disoriented when I wake up and find myself in my house in California instead of where the night-time adventures took me. I was so busy and now I'm resting? That's so strange... I think and start another day.  

Dreams are great for poems, though so I thought I'll write down the two dreams I had and make them into poems of sorts, too long and narrative for journal submission, but just right for the wordy blog.

On Friday after a Dream of Cleaning Vases

I ran away from demons, chasing me through crowded streets.

I cleaned off layers of black paint from an antique vase 

I inherited from my parents. See? It's smooth surface glistens 

as cobalt phoenixes dance in white, porcelain sky.

Let's arrange flowers you brought in this graceful vase -

hyacinth, irises and daisies, a pastel bouquet on clouds of sweet alyssum. 

No? How about a rose rainbow from my garden? Compassion, 

Yellow Mellow, Double Delight and French Perfume. Do not forget

the charms of decades-old Love at First Sight! Its scarlet petals lined with silver

remind you that nothing is ever simple. Everything changes. Nothing lasts. 

Let's walk down the garden path scented with orange blossoms.

Forget the lilacs of your youth. Let's smell the roses, shall we? 

The hybrid teas have a slight flavor but here's the Grande Dame - 

so magnificent in her fragrant, magenta gown.

Tired? Let me serve you Armenian tea - honey-hued, translucent liquid, 

steaming from the delicate China cup. Let's raise a toast

to timeless values. Let's celebrate togetherness and peace. 

There was a time to run. Time to stop running. 

There is a time to say "Enough!"  No pasaran. 

They shall not pass. When you say "No" 

They have to listen. It is the Cosmic Law, you know. 

Do not give up. You'll win your life back through loyalty and strength. 

Balance  your courage with the virtue of restraint. Hone justice 

with ageless wisdom. Do not be cruel. Always stay kind. 

Be careful - don't break the crystal core of your new heart!

How hard the lessons! How many failures haunt the past!  

Do not look back.  Regrets will turn you into a fierce demon. 

Breathe deeply, slowly in my vibrant garden. 

Live now, drink tea from Grandma's favorite, gold-rimmed cup!

May 8, 2023

The poem is inspired by a dream of washing a black-painted vase that slowly reveals its Chinese pattern of dancing phoenixes, blue on white. It seems like magic, removing dirt of the past, accumulated through generations, or done on purpose out of spite, to reveal such timeless, elegant beauty. There is a deeper meaning to the dream - the cleaning of ancestral karma, the hard work it takes to dissolve generations-old weight of ill emotions, regrets, despair. 

But then, there is the garden, birdsong and roses.  It's been my lifesaver in the plandemic, a refuge of serenity and beauty. I survived my bout of illness outside in sunlight, sweating it out while birds sang and orange blossoms filled the air with heavenly scent.  It is so important to be close to nature. Just enjoy life - of plants, birds, lizards, clouds. So much joy in ever leaf, every chirp and note of every winged creature. I was raised in a house with a garden, and loved going outside every day to watch the narcissus and daffodils sprout in their circles on the flowerbed, watch the golden forsythia bloom in an avalanche of petals, wait for the cherries to ripen, play with the willow branches, or read a book on the lawn.  Such simple, ageless delights. No TV, no fancy parties, just being alive in nature being alive, flowering and fruitful. 

When looking for a house in California I picked the one I've been living in for 25 years because of its large garden, fruit trees, and roses, so many patent roses planted back in the early 1950s, Four of these bushes are still alive, still blooming. A couple were "murdered" by a gardener whom I promptly fired - cut them down below the single bud, so the transplanted large-blossom hybrids could not grow back. These roses are "hybrid" because they grow from other roses' stronger roots.  At times the parent will try to bloom as well, shooting long branches out with small red flowers.  

The roses I inherited - Mister Lincoln, Compassion, Peace and Love at First Sight are still lovely, but not really fragrant. For delightful rose scents, I have to turn to the roses I planted - French Perfume, Mellow Yellow, Pop Art, and Grande Dame, Firefighter... The last two are quite alike, despite their names - dark wine-red in hue, huge double flowers, with rounded petals, more magenta in tone than wine of the Grande Dame.  Who would have thought that Firefighter would not smell of smoke and sweat? The Mellow Yellow is not as extraordinarily beautiful as the Oregold of darker, richer yellow and almost no scent. But the fragrance! I decided never to buy roses without rose scent again. 

Colors are interesting, too. Many of my roses are of a single tone - Mister Lincoln of dark, velvety wine-red, Electron and Compassion of clear, vivid pink, Mellow Yellow of creamy, sunny hue, the wine-red-magenta Grande Dame and Firefighter, and of course the pure white Iceberg floribunda bush, that guards the door with its year-round profusion of delicate blooms. 

Charmed by the Love at First Sight I inherited, I looked for two-tone roses and found Peace and Chicago Peace of white, light yellow and pink, Double Delight of white with dark pink edges, Deep Purple with burgundy edges on purple blooms, Rainbow Sorbet of yellow, orange, pinkish red changing in hues as they age, and, my most recent discovery, a fragrant Pop Art, its yellow petals striped with pink. The best of the best - both lovely and fragrant!  I have not kept the tags from these bushes, so I may have forgotten - one bush with pink-yellow-white blossoms seems to be Dream Come True. Another with soft-pink huge flowers = is it Carefree Wonder? 

This year I added some blue to my palette - small stems of szafirki and mid-size blue-yellow Japanese iris. Strong rusty orange in bunches of gazania compete with miniature carnations in white, pink and amaranth. White and pink African daisies I bought for 1$ each are still filling in the palette.  I'm very sensitive to color, so much so that I do not like black and white films, and do not go to see exhibits of drawings, which, in black and white are simply boring. But add color and the image explodes!  So here's another, more colorful dream, that went from jewel hues into pure gold and diamond of intense, joyful light. My life seems to follow the same trajectory. 

On Sunday, After a Dream of Jewel Lights

I remember us, together, flying upwards through the infinite 

lapis of cosmic expanse measured in constellations.

Intertwined in a tight embrace, we were one.  

Two halves of a divine apple of energy - twirling, swirling 

in a feeria of jewel hues - ruby, emerald, sapphire. 

Oh, how I miss those timeless days, years, eras of untold bliss! 

Language was not needed. Transparent to each other, 

we shared thoughts i an instant of yes, always yes.

We crash-landed on a small, distant planet of green forests

 and aquamarine seas.  Everything became heavy, dense 

on this continent of eroding rocks and cold rains.

Separated, we looked for each other in life after life, 

we passed test after test of  unforgetting. 

Would you recognize me without the crown of cosmic jewels? 

Would I find you in an alien landscape of chaparral and muddy winter streams? 

How could I tell it is you, among the desert dust of degradation? 

Yes, always yes, I recognize you in the topaz eyes 

looking at me  with this irresistible energy of masculine 

desire, commanding me to do, what I do not want to do.

Would you still love me if I were an ancient crone?

Would I still love the demon you've become? 

Greedy and resentful, hungry for scraps of my affection, fucus, time? 

Oh how I yearn for our return to the interstellar realm 

of jewel lights. Purified through water, fire -  lost and found - 

we will ascend from ruby, emerald, sapphire

through the sphere of gold diamond rays

ever expanding into the luminous

intensity of grace.

Patience, patience is the key. 

May 8, 2023

 

Rafik Amadol's Living Paintings - Computers and Mimesis, Art Imitating Nature

Rafik Anadol's Living Paintings are extraordinary, especially the evolving landscapes where mountains rise and fall, oceans advance and withdraws, star constellations build glaciers that melt into lakes.  I was completely transfixed by their beauty, accidentally discovered during a visit to a Monday Evening Concert of Process Music... Then I came back for some more.  This was a three-month show at an art gallery in Los Angeles, but I somehow missed it. Too many art exhibits I saw were basically the same, boring, broken bits and pieces, the detritus of sick imagination. Nothing to it. 

But the three "California Landscapes" slow moving digital art based on landscape photographs were astounding! The explanatory notes talked about Artificial Intelligence being involved in the creation of these fantastic pieces; but I disagree. The computer could select individual trajectories of thousands of spheres floating around on the screens, but definitely did not come up with the whole idea. So the credit goes to the artist, in my mind. The California landscapes transforming into each other were my favorites. First, during my initial visit to the gallery, I admired the most the monumental waves of magma modelled from movement of air currents - a wall of images and colors, huge and amazing!  Then, I noticed the smaller, slower-evolving "living paintings" in the second room of the gallery. 

I think I was hypnotized by the evolution of the Earth I saw... I was joined on the bench in front of these three pieces by many others, resting their eyes on the beauty of artistically-transformed and ever evolving landscapes. Such delight!

Some of the misty mountain landscapes, with peaks rising and falling in shifting light of the seasons, spring, summer, fall, winter, day and night, rain and sunshine - reminded me of the most famous Romantic painting of solitude in the mountains by Caspar David Friedrich, "Wanderer above the Sea of Fog" (1818). 

A sole man above a fog-covered valley, alone on a mountain peak, became the key symbol of romantic solitude and reflection, the key to the sublime.  Mr. Amadol found a different version or many different versions of the sublime in shifting, clashing, transforming patterns of movement and color. 

After a Visit to an Art Gallery

In a hall of Rafik Anadol's living paintings

the Universe breathes and moves,

mountain ranges rise and fall,

oceans clash and dance.

If I could live a million or a billion years 

that's how I'd see the Earth - rising and falling - 

a sea morphs into a lake shrouded in mists, 

becomes the bottom of a mountain valley, 

a melting glacier among snow-covered peaks, 

under a cluster of alien stars.  

Living, breathing matter folds itself into itself

pulled by invisible strings of constellations. 

Patterns twist and evolve in waves 

upon waves of transient beauty.

So that's what it was, that's what it is. 

Nothing's fixed. There is no ground under our feet.

Everything's fluid. Only the endless motion.   

The image above with multiple lines pulling itself into new shapes is a fragment of a larger, vertical "living painting" made from photographs of California landscapes, mountains, hills, lakes and oceans that slowly shift from one into another.  The impression of watching California in geological time of whole eras is indelible.  The fascination endless. No wonder so many young people were sitting in front of these evolving images for so long, transfixed by the evolution of the planet. 

The images were made from thousands of data points fed into a computer and then calculated by the machine. Rafik Amadol, a Turkish artist, calls this machine creation and AI art, but I think it is Mr. Amadol's art -after all he programmed the machine, selected the images and made Art to Imitate Nature in the grandest and most ancient tradition of mimesis.  In ancient aesthetic theories, "mimesis" or "imitation" of nature by art was its highest value.  

This aesthetic hierarchy,  placing first Art Imitating Nature, then all other art, has persisted in Western culture for thousands of years, from ancient Greece to the early modern period. Only in the late 19th century the artists'  imagination became of more value than their ability to see and portray what they see. The breach with "Art Imitating Nature" took place.  Mimesis became the domain of "kitsch." The results, though at first laudable, as in impressionism, were ultimately disastrous. From the jokes of surrealists, through the distortions of cubists, we reached the weirdness of conceptualism.  After WWII we ended up with tons of garbage parading as art and pretending to have intrinsic value. 

I somehow fail to notice value in such grand-standing experiments; except in cases of painters inspired by geometry, color, or the art of seeing itself, like Mondrian, Klee, Dali, and Julian Stanczak. So, when visiting galleries and museums I tend to gravitate to galleries where Madonnas and saints may be found with their golden haloes and intricately detailed gowns. 

The crowds at Amadol's exhibit show that "Art Imitating Nature" is alive and well - and using huge banks of data of movement of Pacific Ocean, for instance, or shifting wind pressure, temperature and humidity around Los Angeles may result in the creation of unforgettable, vivid, hypnotically beautiful moving works of art. Hats off to the artist - for harnessing the machine to rediscover the ancient tradition of Mimesis and for restoring the principle of "artisanship" to art. Old masters spent a long time perfecting their paintings, portraits and landscapes. They did not just pour paint from backets or threw eggs on the wall. They actually worked on design, details of composition, details of textures, surfaces and expression to achieve the desired effect. Mr. Amadol harnessed the power of computing machines and software to achieve his goal of creating large-scale mobile artworks. So beautiful! 

Sitting on a bench and watching the landscapes shift in front of me, made me think of the inevitable change, the patterns in my life, and the need to accept these transformation in magnanimity and peace. 

The Breath of Life

The Earth breathes.

Mountains rise and fall.

Oceans spread out and withdraw.

Seasons change. Plants grow from seed

into flower into fruit into seed.

Why do you expect to never change? 

Why do you spend thousands to torture yourself

with plastic surgery to remain slim and youthful? 

Why not accept the flow of time and grow old with grace? 

I was a girl, a woman, a wife, a mother. 

Time to become a crone - time to withdraw

into a shell of wrinkles, collect the wisdom

from all I've seen and done. 

The body changes, yet I AM the same.

I only know more, love more, laugh more. 

The scales fall off my eyes, I see the infinite

in a grain of sand, a leaf, a stirring of breeze

in the tree branches, the swaying of golden grass

beneath live oaks. Cloaked in transient matter

I AM infinite like a perfect pebble, a perfect song

of the matter delighting in existence. 

The Earth breathes. Let me breathe with her.

The mountains rise and fall. The Earth lives on.

Time is a turbulent river. I'm a rock carried 

by its waves, polished into perfection

that I AM. 

The imaginary landscapes erupt in a conflagration, or dissolve into different shapes, colors, hues...

The "living painting" below is a fragment of a wall-size installation, here caught in a fragment resembling a classic landscape with green forest, a red-yellow hill turning colors in the fall, and turbulent sky.  The magma above erupted from a two-tone semi-landscape "living paintings" with green-brown shapes at the bottom and various hues of blue and white on the top. It shifted into an ocean first, then exploded, in slow motion... 

A fragment of the flowing magma motion of colors and shapes: https://youtu.be/bcVp-wxd59U

On the Art of Buying Art

There's no room for Amadol's Living Paintings

in my old house, with shelves full of teacups, 

angels, and crystal balls.  Gold-framed photographs

of kids and roses would not fit in with the insanity

of imaginary landscapes, bursting into flames, 

wild magma flows, crashing and erupting, 

storms of blue, azure, and sapphire rectangles

falling in an avalanche like snow.

I'd like to win a lottery and buy a mansion

in Malibu, overlooking the ocean, with huge windows,

chrome and glass, ultra-modern chairs and tables,

sparse furnishing among pristine white walls, 

waiting for the burst of color from Amadol's lava flows,

bursting in vivid hues - straight from the souks of Istanbul

full of intoxicating magic of silk scarves and jewels 

set in sparking gold admired, while steaming honey-hued tea 

flows through the air in an acrobatic display, 

not burning the hand holding a tiny cup, 

painted with phantasm flowers.

I'd live where I am so happy, in my garden of birdsong

orange blossoms and roses, but I'd visit the mansion to admire

the other nature, filtered through the artist's imagination

with assistance of the machine. Not AI, not intelligent, 

the soul-less machine was an efficient tool in the hands

of its owner, a magnificent, imaginative creator, 

evoking the genesis of planets, the evolution 

of electromagnetic cosmos  on the broad expanse 

of his electronic canvas.   

Fragment of Julius Eastman's Buddha at the gallery: https://youtu.be/5FbeK60L56A

My first visit to the gallery and surprise exposure to Rafik Amadol's Living Paintings took place during a special concert by Monday Evening Concerts, pairing the shifting and evolving landscapes, magmas and waves of the Living Paintings with processual music of American minimalists, like Alvin Lucier and Steve Reich.  Americans seem to avoid minimalism of spiritual content these days, such as works by Aarvo Part, Henryk Mikolaj Gorecki or John Tavener. Instead, the music played at the concert was surface only, pattern only, without a deeper meaning. 

Some of Reich's pieces were fantastic, others unbearable (who can stand the shrieking noise of several glockenspiel played in their highest register, quite loudly?). For that part of the concert I escaped to the second room, to watch the evolving masses of color magma created by Amadol with the tool of a machine from patterns of humidity, temperature and wind speed in California. Fascinating. 

These shifting images welcomed me during the first work on the program, played by a lone percussionist, outlined against the intense hues of waves of tiny spheres in constant motion forming these huge patterns, like particles of air form winds and clouds. Sparse strikes of the Turkish gong resonated, along with more subdued tones of the marimba. The slowness of music slowed down the perception of time so the visual patterns could be appreciated more intensely. 

 

So Nice to Be Thanked - Village Poets, State Senator Portantino, CSPS...

Senator Portantino, Maja Trochimczyk, Sharmagne Leland St. John and William Scott Galasso

January 29, 2023, Bolton Hall Museum. Photo by Declan Floyd.

After 12 years of service to the Village Poets of Sunland Tujunga, organizing the group's Monthly Poetry Readings at Bolton Hall and on Zoom, publishing anthologies, managing the website and the blog, inviting poets and artists, and preparing the annual Independence Day Parade, it is time to call it quits. I have another organization to manage now, California State Poetry Society that I have been the President of since 2019. I also serve as the Managing Editor of the California Quarterly, editor of the CSPS Poetry Letter appearing quarterly in PDF and online formats, and Chair of the Annual Poetry Contests. Plenty to do in the poetry world! 

My last event was the Monthly Reading at Bolton Hall Museum in Tujunga, held on January 29, 2023, with two amazing Featured Poets, Sharmagne Leland St. John and William Scott Galasso.  State Senator Anthony Portantino came in person to distribute his Certificates of Appreciation for the two features and my volunteer work, and to read two of his poems, filled with alliteration and wit, present already in their titles: "From Lummis to Hummus." It is always great to have a politician who cares for the arts and supports artistic endeavors, so all poets cherish the talents and support of Senator Portantino. So lovely! And, alas, so rare... 

The Senator and his Field Representative Declan Floyd were kind enough to write a lovely and long congratulations message:

The Senator wrote: "On behalf of the California State Senate, I join the Sunland-Tujunga community in thanking you for your tremendous contributions to the literary arts in the 25th District over more than a decade. Your works in writing, editing and sharing poetry have inspired a new generation of Village Poets. I commend you for your commitment to sharing ideas and building community bonds through the beauty of language. Best wishes on all your future endeavors!" 

At the reading, while serving as the MC, I read two of my own poems, "Moving to California" haibun that recently appeared in the Red Paper Parasols, an anthology of Southern California Study Group that I helped publish (cover design and layout). The second poem was "Gifts" from my Bright Skies book of 2022. 

I made the cover and layouts for the Southern California Haiku Study Group Anthology for 2022,  featuring the lovely photo taken by Maher McArthur in Japan. Since Deborah P Kolodji agreed to edit the California Quarterly Vol. 48, No. 4 for me, I decided to help her out when my assistance was requested. I also have some haiku and one haibun published in that volume. It was a real pleasure to work with Marcyn Clements, the editor of the haibun section, on making sure that my haibun describing my travel from Poland to California, and from imitations and artifice to reality of life. She encouraged me to add onomatophoeia and specific bird names to make the text more lively. What was most important was the last line in the haiku unchanged through these transformation, "a feather-light heart" - an image from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, where the heart is weighted against a feather to see if the person deserved spiritual awards in the afterlife... 

Moving to California

Long ago, in a gray cement apartment block in Warsaw, Poland, I collected painted birds, carved in wood by local folk artists. Then, I crossed the ocean with my wooden flock. In Montreal, birds came alive, as I watched red-winged blackbirds singing away on telephone lines outside my 3rd story window.  Ca-roooouge - they called out their French name, Carouge à épaulettes. 

Now, in my California garden, gold and ruby feathers sparkle in morning sunrays. Fierce hummingbirds bravely guard their cups of sugar water. The mourning dove marks the hours with the insistence of a cuckoo in an old Alpine clock - You go! You - whooo, who. House finches teach their young to sing, but poor babies cannot go past the first ti- ti- ti. Western bluebirds fill the air with breathless chatter: Do you know? Do you know? Yes, yes, yes. We are here, here, here. Shifting phrases of birdsong announce visitors. Ca-rooouge, Ca-rooouge - the winter blackbirds that followed me from Montreal, went home for the summer. A brilliant yellow oriole nibbles on green grapes under the pristine azure dome of the sky.

           the flutter of wings

interrupts my thoughts –

a feather-light heart 

 Bright Skies. Selected Poems is a book of poems written and collected for my two grand-daughters when they grow up, Juniper and Aurelia, both born in September 2021, four days apart. Michael Escoubas recently wrote a very lovely review of this book for Quill and Parchment (February 2023), and I'm grateful for his kindness and praise, and also grateful that he picked one of my favorite poems from the book to include in the review. It was not published yet, when I read it on Sunday, as my poetic "Swan song" for Village Poets activities.

Gifts

 …the necklace of songs, that you take as a gift

                                       ~ Rabindranath Tagore

I gather sunlight
in my palms
to save for later
when it’s dark outside
and hope seems lost.

My hands are full
of brightness.
I gingerly carry
the tangle of sunrays
in a procession of gifts,
down the aisle.

  I gather sunlight

to keep close

to my heart,

and warm us

through cold

winter nights

with a rich glow

of sunfire.

At the end of the reading, I was surprised with thanks from other Village Poets. Joe DeCenzo presented a certificate of appreciation from Congressman Adam Schiff, and listed my achievements, that included inviting, scheduling and promoting on the blog events over 12 years with 144 poets and artists, creating and hosting the Zoom event series for the 2.5 years of the pandemic (that as Joe said saved the Village Poets from falling apart), decorating the Poets' Convertible for at least 10 Independence Day Parades, and more. He did not forget to mention that the idea of group photos at the end of each reading was also mine and that getting poets to pose for these was like herding cats...

Of the featured poets who presented their work at our Monthly Readings since 2010, 82  authors submitted their work to We Are Here: Village Poets Anthology that I co-edited with Marlene Hitt in 2020, to celebrate 10 years of VP Monthly Readings. Joe did not forget other anthologies associated with Village Poets that I edited over the years: Chopin with Cherries (with work by Marlene Hitt), and Meditations on Divine Names (with work of his, Elsa Frausto, Dorothy Skiles, and Marlene). Yes, it has been a pleasure publishing poems written by members of the Village Poets group and I hope to continue doing so in the future.

In her presentation, Sunland-Tujunga Poet Laureate, Alice Pero, praised my most recent anthology, Crystal Fire. Poems of Joy and Wisdom, illustrated with beautiful paintings of Ambika Talwar and consisting of work by 12 talented poets who all wrote poems about the good things in life, things to be joyous about and thankful for. She decided to read one poem I wrote after a walk in the Big Tujunga Wash, that her garden overlooks and I see over the fences of my neighbors across the street.  Being so close to such a gorgeous tract of wilderness and still being in Los Angeles is one of the delightful secrets of our City of Angels. 

Alchemy in the Hills

Rarefied air opens up to reveal 

rocks in the mountain stream,

scattered sparks of reflected sunrays, 

shimmering golden waves of water 

spreading in circles from where

I stand on thick grains of sand. I watch 

a wild sunflower unfurl its petals.

I smile at the aerial acrobatics of sparrows, 

orioles and the small yellow-gray

birds of unknown names. The scents

 of white sage and sumac fill the valley, 

ringing with the buzz of a myriad of 

bees  hovering about cotton-ball arrays 

of wild buckwheat. It is not much,

but it is enough: rock, sand, and leaf enough.

Children’s laughter flows towards me 

from another wading pool, upstream. 

They splash and laugh, laugh and splash, 

amused by every droplet. I rest in

the center of my universe, at a still point 

of my turning world, where all elements—

 air, rock, sand, water, sunfire—

merge into one blessing of being here, 

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

its spot between stones on the creek shore.

 

Huge bouquets of flowers followed, presented by Pamela Shea and Marlene Hitt, but I was most delighted with a special gift from Marlene Hitt, our founder and the moving force of poetry in the Foothills.  She made a series of posters, using photographs of me reading poems since my "crowning" as Poet Laureate in 2010, of the anthology, and of the Village Poets readings. She also wrote a very touching tribute, which I am delighted to share:

Marlene's set of "thank you, Maja" posters is so cute that I'm including their photos below. She also gave me a costume jewelry set of very gold hue, an inheritance from her mother. I'm sure I'll find a poetry event to wear these to.... These expressions of gratitude from someone who has done so much by herself, was the most touching. 

Poets and Village Poets logo

Presentation of Lifetime Achievement Award to Marlene and Lloyd Hitt, Dorothy Skiles in the back.

Village Poets at the Passing of the Laurels ceremony for Pamela Shea

A postcard and an outfit at the Independence Day Parade in 2011

End of term as Poet Laureate in 2012 and a performance with musician for ST Neighborhood Council, Marlene added a photo of my granddaughter Juniper in holiday outfit looking at her Babcia...

More events- Independence Day Parades, and roses.

With Cile Borman and Village Poets Anthology and with Joe DeCenzo at the Passing of the Laurels ceremony of 2010.

A collage of Village Poets events collected and assembled by Marlene

More Village Poets event photos assembled by Marlene Hitt.

So thank you Village Poets for the fun I had over the past 12 years, organizing over 120 readings, managing the Zoom events during the pandemic, and interacting with so many talented poets and artists.  Thank you!

Poets at the end of the Village Poets Reading on January 29, 2023, Bolton Hall Museum

OTHER THINGS TO BE GRATEFUL FOR

It is nice to be appreciated - I have had quite a nice collection of kind words recently. 

My Christmas mail included two very nice cards from my Board members at California State Poetry Society. Maura Harvey (Editor of the California Quarterly) wrote: "Really appreciate your terrific organizational skills, perseverance, and loyalty. CSPS is so fortunate to have you, Maja as prez!" Richard and Susan Deets (Richard is Vice President for Membership): "Thank you for the wonderful job you are doing as President of CSPS. We look forward to many exciting years to come under your leadership." I will have more time for CSPS, its California Quarterly and its Poetry Letter, as well as for publishing books and working on research papers on music history, my original avocation, neglected when I had dedicated so much time to local poetry scene. I already left Poets on Site, Westside Women Writers and now Village Poets groups. The day has 24 hours and there is never enough time to do everything one wants to do. 

Bouquet of white, red and yellow roses from Pam Shea.

I had an extraordinarily busy year with multiple publications and projects.  First, I decided to collect my positive poetry and assembled a volume of 85 poems illustrated with 160 photographs of nature entitled "Bright Skies. Selected Poems." The collection was praised in reviews by Marlene Hitt, and William Scott Galasso.   https://moonrisepress.com/bright-skies--trochimczyk.html

http://poetrylaurels.blogspot.com/2022/08/maja-trochimczyks-new-book-bright-skies.html

Joe DeCenzo, Elzbieta Czajkowska, Susan Dobay, Maja Trochimczyk and Bory Thach at the closing of the Sky Garden exhibition, reading from Crystal Fire anthology, November 20, 2022. Paintings by Ambika Talwar in the background. 

Second, I selected 12 poets to contribute to a new anthology of positive poetry entitled "Crystal Fire. Poems of Joy and Wisdom" and including 144 poems by 12 poets: Elzbieta Czajkowska, Joe DeCenzo, Mary Elliott, Jeff Graham, Marlene Hitt, Frederick Livingston, Alice Pero,  Allegra Silberstein, Jane Stuart, Ambika Talwar, Bory Thach, and my own. The spectacular cover art and paintings to start each section are by poet Ambika Talwar, a talented painter and poet.

https://moonrisepress.com/crystal-fire-anthology.html

Poet Bory Thach, included in the anthology and participating in the readings, shared the following comment about the book and readings: "I really appreciate everything that you do for the arts, especially how you strive to be fair and include everyone through well-deserved recognition.  It's great to be surrounded by such positive poets with a wide variety of perspectives and insights that can be shown through their poetry.  Being a writer I always try to learn something from every artist that I meet.  The best part about our group is that I get to read amazing works by different authors, experience their views as well as fresh images and new ways of looking at the world.  As a result, I have the privilege of gaining valuable knowledge and wisdom.  All because I encountered so many poetic pieces as your editor.  I'm just grateful to be able to take away at least one thing every time I open a book.  It is like a step closer to enlightenment!"

Thank you, Bory! It is always good to be appreciated. 

Reading from "Bright Skies" in front of Talwar's paintings and her photos 

at the opening of the Sky Garden Exhibition in October 2022.

Third, Ambika's paintings from "Crystal Fire" and my photographs from Bright Skies gave rise to an exhibition entitled "Sky Garden" and held at the Scenic Drive Gallery in Monrovia in October and November 2022. The exhibition, curated by Susan Dobay, presented just 12 paintings and 12 photographs, but gave rise to a series of events, two poetry readings from the books, on October 16 and November 20, 2022. The exhibition was also visited by singer, guitarist and song-writer Piotr Kajetan Matczuk of Poland, who gave there a mini-concert. 

https://moonrisepress.blogspot.com/2022/09/moonrise-press-and-scenic-drive-gallery.html

https://moonrisepress.blogspot.com/2022/11/sky-garden-exhibition-closing-on.html

Maja Trochimczyk with Piotr Matczuk at Sky Garden Exhibition, 5 November 2022

Fourth, I was commissioned by the National Fryderyk Chopin Institute of Poland to write a scholarly article for publication in the Studia Chopinowskie research journal on the topic related to Maria Szymanowska (1789-1831), an eminent pianist and composer, and an important fore-runner of Chopin.  I decided to write about the handwritten patriotic songbooks found in the archives of Museum Adama Mickiewicza in the Polish Library in Paris that were written by two of Szymanowska's children, her daughter Helena Malewska and son Romuald Szymanowski. I had earlier written on Szymanowska's patriotic songs in the collection of Historical Chants (Spiewy Historyczne) by Julian Ursyn Niemcewicz and had noticed these small notebooks while reviewing Szymanowska-related documents in the Polish Library in 2015. Since this paper is yet to be published, I will not discuss its content here, except to say it presents an important aspects of preserving Polish culture and traditions in the homes during the partitions and even in the heart of the Russian Empire. 

Archival Materials related to Maria Szymanowska at the Polish Library in Paris