What is the brightest light? What is that burning, burning, burning bright in the silence of the night?
Not the Fire Monkey, not yet ... For the start of the Chinese Zodiak Year we have to wait to February 8, 2016. Officially we are still in the year of the Goat, after the years of Horse, Snake, Dragon, Rabbit, and Tiger, the last one back in 2010.
purple highlights
cutout the brilliance painted
on the black
The Tiger William Blake Tiger Tiger. burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye. Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat. What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp. Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears And watered heaven with their tears: Did he smile His work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee? Tiger Tiger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
I find not-so-fearful symmetry in the burning melting golden leaves of the liquid amber tree, so similar to the maple, yet so different, with its colors from pale yellow, through orange, to scarlet, bronze and black purple.
the tree stretches
his leafy fingers to the sun
begging for light
In contrast, the symmetry of the cactus is quite fearful, indeed. Imagine falling on all those pricks and needles! That would not have been as comfortable as it might look, the barrels of cactus resembling puffy pillows...
a noon illusion -
spheres of the softest velvet
in the field of cactus
call of the Wild West -
bewitched by the turquoise sky
gold of the cactus
Some cactus fields at the Huntington Garden look sinister, ominous, as underwater seabeds, or twisted masses of snakes. Snakes with thorns, and evil teeth, straight from a Halloween movie set...
sea anemones
with spiky hairdos on the rocks
of Gibraltar
horror of horrors -
the twisted mass of nail-toothed limbs
engulfs me
a grey mutant rose
the agave opens its steel spiked petals
to pierce the light
where are thou,
my crocodile of sharp teeth
tears lying in wait?
cactus flowers
stretch their scarlet tongues like flames
licking the white light
But all horrors pass, and so does the cactus garden ... I walk through a meadow to one of the most astounding and majestic trees I have ever seen, an eucalyptus reaching high, high, high into the sky. If I were a monkey, maybe I'd be able to climb up its smooth trunk. I can only look up from the ground, admire the multicolored bark. Imported from Australia, it lives in a foreign landscape.
tree bark canvas
records droughts and storms
of centuries
above cough drops
eucalyptus leaves stretch up
to perfume the sky
A Tree Epiphany
~ for Kristin who saw a whale in a tree
I want the solid serenity of trees the sighs of their boughs in the wind
roots reaching to the core of the earth
An oak perhaps, or a grand plane tree
that majestic one in Descanso Gardens
a whale of the tree, floating on waves of air
I could be, perhaps, that regal eucalyptus
with multicolored bark — a canvas for centuries
shedding memories of droughts and storms
Or liquid amber, oh my liquid amber
melting gold and bronze at my feet
nourishing the roots, seeds, new leaves
Wait for the sleeping earth to awaken
the boughs sigh in the northern wind
the roots reach deeper, still deeper
I adore the trembling of birches in the breeze,
whispering: quiet, quiet, now listen — before
leaves fall, bare branches shiver in the snow
Am I an apple tree, comely and fruitful
in an abandoned orchard by the crossroads
that shyly offers gifts to all passers-by?
I want the serenity of trees
to fill my heart with their sighs, with their
whispers, with their sleep.
(c) 2016 by Maja Trochimczyk
she said it's a whale
this grand plane tree with white bark
swimming in the air
with spotted whale's skin
half dove-grey, half steel, charcoal
the plane tree stands tall
I end the walk, admiring the symmetry of rose petals, and their burning flame in the afternoon sun.
symmetry of petals -
an incandescent rose flame
mirrors the sun
What a delight it is, and so much hard work of "rosarians" had gone into crafting the perfect rose flame, a rainbow of yellows, tangerines, and fuchsias ... It is a living flame of love, as St. John of the Cross would say...
I too have my perfect multicolor rose, mostly yellow, with touches of apricot and plum. The last survivor of the blight caused by weedkiller accidentally added to the soil...
gold petals unfold
the day fades into shadows -
my last winter rose
I picked the photograph and wrote the haiku for this haiga to give it out as a gift at the annual Southern California Haiku Study Group post-New Year party at Debbie Kolodji's welcoming house. A rose filled with light, yet speaking of shadows seemed a perfect choice for the year of the Fire Monkey. No, I could not write about monkeys, not even Shakespeare's Monkeys...
As a vain and energetic "Fire Rooster" I have great hopes for the year of the Fire. I will end this tour of the Huntington with a selfie among fuchsia and violet flowers. May your year of the Fire Monkey flower with positive energy and creativity!
There was a surprise waiting for me at the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris this November. After I waited in a long line in the rain, with colorful umbrellas and a watchful eye of fatigue-clad soldiers with machine guns, the clock struck one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gPa4eWk8Sg (read about it in the previous post, Thanksgiving in Paris).
Then, inside the stone monument defying the passage of time, I saw the stained glass windows, the breathtaking heights of the main nave. I walked around and listened to the music, swirling beneath blues and reds of the stained-glass windows: I heard the Kyrie Eleison, Christ Have Mercy, Lord Have Mercy: https://youtu.be/2ZsOBsT-pwo
Finally, a medieval Alleluia filled the air.... I walked around the back of the main nave, from one stained-glass window chapel to the next.
And here it was, my delightful surprise. A tinfoil and paper monument of massive proportions: Szopka Krakowska, the Nativity Scene in a fantastic scenery of multi-towered Castle or Gothic Cathedral as envisioned by folk artists from Krakow, Poland. The minuscule Nativity scene in the heart of the building, surrounded by Polish folk dancers, and characters from folk tales. Pan Twardowski on his rooster, flying to the moon... Angels, three Kings, everyone...
I find Poland in Paris
bright tinfoil towers of a Nativity Scene
among the grey stones of Notre Dame
I was in Paris for a reason: to read a paper, research, talk... (my Szymanowska Conference Report is on the Chopin with Cherries Blog). At end of the 3rd International Symposium "Maria Szymanowska and Her TIes" was the closing salon, "An Invitation to the Dance," I read poetry by 19th century Polish poets, and verse of my own. I loved being accompanied by improvisations of extraordinary pianist, Edoardo Torbianelli, who has music spilling from under his fingers. I was going to say: from his sleeves, but he rolls them up tightly, so that nothing can spill....
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5AlQMa9NlEo. Poetry Reading at the Salon "Invitation to the Dance" at the close of the Maria Szymanowska Conference in Paris, November 27, 2015. Edoardo
Torbianelli improvises on Johann Alois Graff pianoforte from 1825 and I read my poem "A Study with Cherries" in Polish, from the Chopin with Cherries Anthology (2010). Recorded by Alicja Bialek-Guillemette.
Here are the words, in English and Polish:
"A Study with Cherries"
After Etude in C Major,
Op. 10, No. 1 and the cherry orchard
of my
grandparents, Stanisław and Maria Wajszczuk
I want a cherry,
a rich, sweet cherry
to sprinkle its dark notes
on my skin, like rainy preludes
drizzling through the air.
Followed by the echoes
of the piano, I climb
a cherry tree to find rest
between fragile branches
and relish the red perfection –
morning cherry music.
Satiated, sleepy,
I hide in the dusty attic.
I crack open the shell
of a walnut to peel
the bitter skin off,
revealing white flesh –
a study in C Major.
Tasted in reverie,
the harmonies seep
through light-filled cracks
between weathered beams
in Grandma’s daily ritual
of Chopin at noon.
_________________________________________
in Polish translation by Maja Trochimczyk
"Etiuda z Czereśniami"
Inspiracja Etiuda C-Dur, Op. 10,
No. 1 i wisniowym sadem mojego dziadka i babci, Stanisława i Marianny Wajszczuk
I also read 19th century poems written to Maria Szymanowska by Count Henryk Rzewuski (A Menu of her Dinner) and Julian Ursyn Niemcewicz (Praise of Szymanowska's Talent). I read them in Polish with a summary in English. The first one was quite funny, a full humorous menu, the second properly laudatory. Here they are: https://www.youtube.com/edit?video_id=g7NnuFrBtDQ
And, of course, at the end, I read my poem inspired by Leonardo da Vinci's "The Lady with an Ermine" and the theme poem for the salon, "An Invitation to the Dance" - a lovely trifle, written in the form of a dialogue, on the intertwined themes of love and dancing...
Below are the texts of the two poems recited at the Salon, the closing event of the 3e Maria Szymanowska Colloque, in Paris at the Academie Polonaise de Sciences, on November 27, 2015. I am accompanied on Johann Alois Graff pianoforte by Edoardo Torbianelli,who improvised renaissance style music for the Leonardo poem, and some sweet arpeggios for the Dance poem. Recorded by Alicja Bialek-Guillemette on November 27, 2015. The Lady With An Ermine ~ after Leonardo da Vinci's portrait of Cecilia Gallerani, in the Czartoryski Museum in Krakow
Her eyes follow me around the room
with that secretive smile she shares
with her famous cousin.
Filled with the knowledge of what was, what will be
she slowly caresses the smooth warm ermine fur.
"Tesoro, amore mio, sii tranquillo, ti amo"
Leonardo’s brush made a space for her to inhabit,
a grey-blue sky painted black much later –
she was pregnant, her son – a Sforza bastard,
the white ermine - the emblem of her Duke.
Sheltered by Polish royalty, she revealed
her charms only to their closest confidantes.
In 1830, exiled in a precious wood box, to Paris,
In 1919, returned to taste the Polish freedom.
"Amore mio, sii tranquillo, ti amo"
In 1939, hidden again, found by the Nazis
for Hitler’s last dream, the Linz Führermuseum,
Art among red flags and swastikas, flourishing
in the dark cavern of his mind. Never built.
Berlin, occupied Krakow, Governor Frank's
hunting lodge, Bavaria. The Red Army's closing in.
Train tracks. Crisp winter air. American soldiers,
The cameras of Monument Men.
"Sii tranquillo, ti amo"
Back home in Krakow, she is safe
in the recess of a museum wall. Under a muted spotlight,
Children play a game:Walk briskly from right to left,
don’t let your eyes leave her eyes, see how she is watching you.
Her eyes follow me around the room
Filled with the knowledge of what was, what will be
she slowly caresses the smooth warm ermine fur.
She knows that I know that she knows.
"Amore mio, ti amo"
_________________
* Tesoro, amore mio, sii tranquillo, ti amo" - fragment of a love letter in Italian, "Sweetheart, my love, be quiet, I love you"
(c) 2015 by Maja Trochimczyk
Leonardo da Vinci, The Lady with an Ermine
An Invitation To The Dance
And the angels are dancing.
Did you say dancing? Yes, dancing. Making somersaults
and jumping two hundred yards in the air. Air? Are they here? I thought they lived in infinity, Or eternity, or the great beyond, or whatchamacalit.
No. Here. They are laughing their heads off. Giggling,
smiling, smirking, guffawing. Laughing. What’s so funny? Nic. Nada. Naught.
It is just that they are so happy.
So incredibly, exorbitantly, blissfully happy.
Why? Oh, because of that quirky thing
from the country song. What thing? Don’t you know? Have you not heard
that love conquers all? That love triumphs
over lies, fear, anger, shame and despair?
That it is? Love is. True love. Our love…
It blossoms in us, through us.
It opens its petals. The world is more tranquil,
serene in the luminescence of our love.
New stars are born and cherries are sweeter when we
are together, immersed in this love. When we
find it. Return to it. Share it. Cherish it. When we
are not giving up. No matter what. No matter how hard.
No matter how late. It is soo simple, very simple.
Impossible? Yet, it is here to stay. So what about these angels, then…
Oh, yes. Would you like to go dancing with the angels?
Boogie-woogie, waltz, tango or salsa?
(c) 2015 by Maja Trochimczyk
With Szopka krakowska in the Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris
After coming back home, it was time for Christmas and New Year Wishes. I picked a rose, beautiful striped antique one, Rosa Mundi, the Rose of the World that grows in my beloved Descanso Gardens in La Canada. With a green background it was exactly what I needed. Forget medieval cathedrals... here's something real, something that grows:
With the snow and all white
Without the snow and all green
With lights and garlands and spice
May your holidays shine from within!
Happy New Year 2016!
But the stanza I wrote sounded trite and tired to my ears, so unaccustomed to rhyming. Where did this silly rhyme come from?
On a sunny afternoon, I went shopping to my favorite thrift store and found a bunch of music boxes, playing English carols, more or less out of tune. I picked the best ones to add to my ever - growing collection. Silent night, A little drummer boy, Saint Nick... I thought of the previous owners, who died and left their treasures unattended, waiting to be rescued from the pile of old teddy bears, and damaged Santas. Was it a warm-hearted, cookie-baking Grandma? Was it a lonely, sentimental spinster? Are there still spinsters (what an ugly word!) in 2015?
Time for another Christmas poem, then, this one with music boxes and memories of happy childhood, from one generation to the next...
A Santa music box - snow globe with toy bird whistles from Poland.
.
A Music Box Christmas
I wind the spring on the music box
Silvery specks swirl in the snow globe
The twinkling of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”
Fills the air. Santa on the rooftop falls into the chimney.
Are you ready for the holidays? With Scottish whisky cake
Polish makowiec, or American apple pie? Will you cook
Tamales on Christmas Eve, your family gathered
Around steaming pots, laughter mixed with hearty flavors?
Will you roast turkey with fixings on Christmas? Will you
Nibble slices of chocolate oranges, after unwrapping gifts?
Taste walnuts and sesame snaps from your stockings?
I wind the spring on the music box
Silvery specks swirl in the snow globe
Memories of home swirl before me
Sparkling lights shine in the colored tinfoil of Szopka Krakowska,
Its fantastic church towers rise in their Gothic splendor
Above a Nativity Scene and figurines from Polish folk tales.
I make cranberry sauce with diced pears and apples
The way my Mom taught me. Do I still know how
To chop figs and dates into finely-ground poppy seeds
Boiled in milk, re-fried with honey? The favorite flavors
Float away with Ogiński’s polonaise, Farewell to the Homeland.
Under the blazing California Sun, I taste the exotic desserts
Of Poland’s eastern borderlands, where cultures mixed
And worlds mingled – Poles, Lithuanians, Tartars, Jews –
Cornflower blue skies and shimmering gold of rye fields.
I wind the spring on the music box
Silvery specks swirl in the snow globe
I make a promise to myself
This Christmas, I’ll read a novel, wrapped in a plush blanket
And a Santa hat. I will walk alone in the park, come back
To the empty house and watch The Lord of the Rings,
The epic battles of the elements, good versus evil,
Good versus evil - twirling and waltzing like the silvery
specks in my Santa snow globe. I will sing along “We Wish
You a Merry Christmas” and remember a Nativity Play
With my daughter - an angel waving a green pine bough
Singing in a sweet chorus of children’s voices:
“We swish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!”
Maja Trochimczyk with Hanna Kulenty and the Crowds of the Basilica Sacre Coeur
Maja Trochimczyk with Alicja Guillemette-Bialek and Dali
So many blessings, so many delights discovered in Paris... in the Espace Dali in Montmartre. While hordes of tourists are satisfied by a trek up the hill to the Sacre Coeur Basilica and down the side streets to the art market square, faux restaurants and all the faux artistes, we took a turn around the corner to an empty street, past an empty restaurant: Espace Dali with a show of modern interpretations of his sculptures in multicolored, liquid glass.
an empty bistro
silences crowded Paris street
outside of time
In part, I did know what to expect: melting clocks, women with drawers in their bodies, and giraffes on fire.
melting clocks
go on pretending -
too solid for time
"to melt or not to melt" -
this is the question only
snails may answer
bronze leaves
deny the right of time
to melt in your eyes
wings seen unseen
I multiply into a twin shadow
of a double goddess
I did not know about the eyes, though. I guess, they are too far beyond the ordinary, even the extra-ordinary-ordinary... There are several drawings and sculptures of multiple eyes on display in the museum. I was fascinated by the Architecture of Eyes, a relief sculpture made of silver metal and blue artificial eyes, some with eyelashes, some without.
The whole stack of these eyes has an other-worldly, apocalyptic impact, making one think of Cherubim and the Divine Vessel described by Ezekiel, with its wings folding into each other, and the multitude of open eyes on the rim of its wheels... A strange world, a strange world indeed where eyes are buildings and buildings are made of eyes...
After Dali If your eyelids do not shine silver In a tower of endless repeats, If your lips do not bloom in a sofa, Too pouty to be touched or kissed If your snails do not grow larger than tigers, And your clocks do not melt onto your trees, What are you doing in the Espace Dali on Montmartre? Lost in this crooked house On a crooked alley, up a crooked hill That twists time into a pretzel of potentiality Where elephants grow spider-thin legs Running after endless flames of giraffes. Eyes watch blue eyes Folding into the silver Rings of recurrence You have to really look to see that reality Of impossible presence beyond limits Where Everything is One and One is Everything and you are in the leaves And petals open in you and the Earth Under your feet sighs through your lungs And your heart beats with the waves of the ocean Eyes watch blue eyes Folding into the silver Rings of recurrence When birds welcome the sun Rising in your garden that morning, you know You hear their song, singing Yes, it is always Yes in the eyeless ears of the birds In the bluest eyes of silvery turrets In Dali’s architecture of eyes When birds welcome the sun With the waves of the ocean, You know. Everything is One One is Everything You hear their song, singing Yes, Always Yes in the bluest of Yes In the Time’s Yes, the unfolding Architecture of Eyes.
eyes watch blue eyes
folding into the silver
rings of recurrence
eyes watch blue eyes
folding into the silver
rings of recurrence
And still... Ambika Talwar saw something else:
flashing walls
folding doors
see eyes creep
do not fall asleep
how can you awaken?
_______________________________________________
Photos from the Espace Dali in Paris by Maja Trochimczyk, Photos from Paris by Alicja Guillemette-Bialek and Martin Majoor. Artwork includes fragments from Architecture of Eyes by Salvador Dali, Paris Espace Dali.
Self-portrait with Leonardo at the Louvre, November 23, 2015.
And they said, aren't you afraid to go? To Paris? Now? After the explosions? Bloodied bodies in the streets? For Thanksgiving? This is how we show we are not afraid, we will not let them win, whoever they are, these men with guns, tall, strong-muscled men without love, with guns, always more guns. But I sought something else, something to be thankful for. The Louvre was there, waiting.
Oh, how we long
for the tender arms of mother -
safe touch of azure
And there is more, that other half smile of John the Baptist. Leonardo's mysterious twin.
look at the clouds
don't get distracted by things below
he says, pointing at the sky
Today, I'm thankful for paintings. Leonardo in black and blue made my day. And so did that flustered angel, excitedly bomb-diving the Blessed Virgin with the good news, hers and ours, the real Good News: Peace be with you. God lives in your heart. Look how surprised she is, how unprepared. Aren't we all? To know that there is only love, only One Love that links us, sentient beings, from the bee to the bison, from dolphin to the duck, with the cruel, violent humans hiding somewhere in-between? When will we feel that all human beings are part of us; that all trees grow our roots, all skylarks sing our songs?
Yes, I did see long guns in Paris. Groups of four or five soldiers in camouflage fatigues, walking along the umbrella lines waiting to get inside the Notre Dame Cathedral. Why did we stand for over an hour in the cold?
umbrellas blossom
on the cathedral square
without gunshots
Maybe to hear the bells ringing at noon, and, again at one o'clock.
a new hour -
cathedral bells are ringing
under clouded skies
The Cathedral waves of song bounce off the cobblestones spill on the rooftops stay still, watch shadows fle the bronze majesty of bells morning brightness rises in the rhythm of the ocean, caressing ancient mounds of cooled off lava at the edge of the dying world inside the rib-cage of a cathedral we learn to breathe in the beached whale of a building the city’s beating heart
(C) Maja Trochimczyk, October 19, 2013
Yes, I'm thankful for the cathedral. For the artisans who made its rosettes and stained glass windows,
I also thank the carpenters who built the walls of the Auberge des Deux Ponts near the Bibliotheque Polonaise on Ille de France, just around the corner from the Notre Dame. What a perfect, simple, elegant, place. With ten tables for two, and a harmony of sights and tastes.
I count my blessings when I walk around in the rain. It is such a pleasure to take in the sights, the sounds. The wind and the wings of seagulls gathering above an old lady who came to feed the swans on the shore of the Seine. The whole aviary showed up, uninvited, and started their pithy battles for the crumbs. I'm touched by the sight of the swans, and the one, oversized ugly duckling swimming nearby.
Yes, I'm grateful for the bread, the lady, and the swans. The violinist and artist Wanda Sobieska made hand-drawn illustrations for a new version of the Ugly Duckling, composed by Ken Woods and recorded by his ensemble. It took them two years to write a ten-minute tale. Was this time well spent? Of course.
grey feathers fly
the gang pecks and screeches
poor ugly duckling
But that turmoil was before the swan was aware who he really was: the majestic, glorious bird, of grace and beauty. A case of mistaken identity. Don't we all suffer from it sometimes? At all times? Do we know what are we here for? The contours of our lives outlined by heartbeats? The invisible links of affection? Shortcuts through time into the ever present, ever brilliant now? Are we thankful?
What are we thankful for?
Today, I'm grateful for music. My travel to Paris is for a reunion of scholars, connected by an unlikely subject of a pianist-composer long gone, Maria Szymanowska died in 1831, why are we still talking about her? What is there in the life, in the music of this lovely, elegant lady, the Court Pianist to the Tsarina, that could possibly matter to us today? Aren't we thankful for when we listen to Szymanowska's Romances sung by Elisabeth Zapolska and played by Bart van Oort on an antique Aloysius Graff fortepiano from 1820s? One of seven such instruments in the world... It has five pedals, can sound muted, distant, or jangling, percussive, or resonant and boisterous. Who knew so many colors could hide in a box of precious wood and metal? Hats off to those who made and restored this ancient beauty... Hats off to Elisabeth whose enthusiasm and warmth inspired so many...
Bart van Oort and Elizabeth Zapolska perform Maria Szymanowska. November 24, 2015.
Today, I'm grateful for libraries. We would not know who we are, where we came from, who was here before us, what they thought, what they did, what they left for us to find, if not for the nameless armies of librarians, archivists, custodians of our past, and ushers of the future. The Czartoryski family of aristocrats in Poland, and their Home Library of letters and notes that helps us understand the emotions felt by lonely mothers two hundred years ago. The countless, nameless servants of truth, who made sure that these paper gifts survived until today (and are now in Krakow). The Great Emigration exiles in Paris that started the Bibliotheque Polonaise in 1830s, among them the son of Adam Mickiewicz, grandson of Maria Szymanowska, who kept Grandma's papers, jewels and even her satin slippers....
Maja Trochimczyk with Eva Davos-Talma and Prof. Irena Poniatowska, iFrancja.fr.
And let me thank the librarians: Ewa Rutkowska who guards the Mickiewicz manuscripts and Magdalena Glodek who oversees the rare prints and books. Thanks to them I could make my small discoveries, making order out of chaos. I identified a romance by a forgotten woman, Franciszka Kochanowska, found her death date and her family, and doubled the size of her known oeuvre, from one to two songs!!! Hurray!!! The first notice of this rare find was given at the 3e Maria Szymanowska Colloque held at the Polish Academy of Sciences in Paris, with Prof. Irena Poniatowska, my mentor, in attendance.
A page from Maria Szymanowska's Album, Manuscript No. 970,
Bibliotheque Polonaise, Paris.
Soo, I'm grateful for books. The ones written and lovingly preserved, and the ones I'm going to write and publish. One of my favorite books of all times is a set of illuminations of Dante's Divine Commedy by Giovanni di Paolo, way better than the 19th century dark imagery of weird angels and demons. Giovanni paints huge golden suns, the dazzling brilliance of Primum Mobile with real gold.
A revelation and a delight. Coupled with my favorite pomegranates from my tree: a treat for this Thanksgiving!
A Revelation After Il Paradiso
We live in the third sphere
of lovers, in the Earth’s long shadow
Our love waxes and wanes
like the Moon, or Venus rising up
before dawn, the star of the morning
We oscillate from darkness to brilliance,
float from fear into sunlight
to rest on a golden afternoon
in the innocent warmth of affection
among newly planted roses
Imperial, Electric, Compassion
Double Delight and Simplicity roses
in our garden where we trim dried, twisted
branches of old oleanders to make room
for orange blossoms and more pomegranate
always more pomegranate
never enough pomegranate
Dark red translucent juice stains our fingers
Tart juice bursts with flavor
in our mouths, ready for kisses
always ready for more kisses
softest, childlike, strongest, tasting
like the wine we never tasted, the dream
we never even hoped to dream about
escaping the long shadow
of the Earth on a golden afternoon
lovers in the Garden of Love
afternoon in the Third Sphere of Venus
golden, golden, sparkling golden
afternoon on another planet
(c) Maja Trochimczyk, October 2015
Finally, and always, I'm thankful for those who love me, my children, my family, my friends.
Maja, Marcin, Agnieszka, Ian, Anna, May 3, 2015
Among them, there is the talented poet and visionary mystic of deep insights, Ambika Talwar who posted a beautiful note on Facebook... Yes, this is what FB is good for:
Thanksgiving Post from Ambika Talwar Hello Everyone ~ I am here in ND remembering and counting my blessings, my lessons, the gifts from many of you through rough and gentle times. For this I am most grateful. I am remembering my ability to serve and those willing to receive. For this I am most grateful. I am remembering the diverse possibilities arising for our futures that so many of you have shared and I long to learn more ways by which our potential may be realised. For this I am most grateful. I am remembering how utterly alone one can be in this vast world and how someone remembers or shows up to remind you we are not. For this I am grateful. I am remembering my many homes while I sit here in my parents' living room making sense of all our ways and vagrancies, whose lessons are not always easy. For this I must be grateful for those above and those actions unmentioned. And mostly, I am remembering the life of my beloved father and his many sensitivities, sensibilities, and wisdoms - his delighting ways, his challenging ways, his capacities to know and to understand and to love despite our profound differences. To remember and to cherish all this is my deepest privilege now, knowing that this is what will carry me forth wherever I am to now step and claim as mine. I am grateful for my kith and kin, my friends, my most delightful nieces and nephews, the birds and bees, horses.. all sentient beings, all life. I pray I find my new way and am fulfilled in ways not imagined before. And I wish this for each of you, for all of you. With all my love ~ Ambika Talwar
Lois P. Jones, Maja Trochimczyk and Ambika Talwar, Photo by Susan Rogers.
Santa Monica's Rapp Saloon, October 2015
Isn't it a beautiful greeting? From the mind and the heart?
