Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Polish Poet Wins Fifth Annual Harriss Poetry Prize



Danuta E. Kosk-Kosicka was named winner of CityLit Press's fifth annual Harriss Poetry Prize for her chapbook manuscript "Oblige the Light."

Born and raised in Poland, Kosk-Kosicka is a scientist, bilingual poet, writer, poetry translator, photographer, and co-editor of the literary journal Loch Raven Review.

Her poems have appeared in the U.S.A., Ireland, Sweden, and Poland in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including The Baltimore ReviewBeltway Poetry ReviewEllipsis: Literature and ArtInner Art JournalInternational Poetry ReviewLittle Patuxent ReviewMobiusPassagerPirene's FountainPivotRufous SalonSpillwayTheodateVan Gogh's EarAkcent, as well as Stranger at Home: Anthology of American Poetry with an AccentThy Mother's Glass, and Weavings 2000: Maryland Millennia/Anthology.

Her translations of poems by three Maryland Poets Laureate-Lucille Clifton, Josephine Jacobsen, and Linda Pastan have been published in Poland; her translations of poems by Lidia Kosk, Ernest Bryll, and Wislawa Szymborska have appeared in over 50 publications in the U.S.A. 

She is the translator for two bilingual books of poems by Lidia Kosk:   niedosyt/ reshapings and Slodka woda, slona woda/Sweet Water, Salt Water, the latter of which she has also edited. 

Launched in 2009, the Harriss Poetry Prize is named in honor of Clarinda Harriss, eminent Baltimore poet, publisher, and professor of English at Towson University. Harriss, educated at Johns Hopkins University and Goucher College, is a widely published, award-winning poet and, off campus, serves as editor/director of BrickHouse Books, Inc., Maryland’s oldest literary press.


Here is one of the poems from this prize-winning collection:

In the Background the Waltz from Doctor Zhivago


In a movie scene a train
Like a toy—in whose hands?—
            Runs on a white plain, sways,
Jerks on the tracks
            Pursued by a plumed snake.

Where, where, where, where, where, where
            A land rolled out for play—
Who, who, who, who, who, who…

The ones who packed themselves
Fifty to a freight car with a choking stove
            May have had enough force
To thrust through the thick pane
Of the dry frozen universe
            And see yellow flowers above
            The blades of grass.

The unlucky ones in the strangling
Arms of the army with red stars
            Had no chance—packed in freight cars
Thrown in the hollows
In the Katyń forest.
Clots on their bulleted heads,
Tied hands, blindfolded words
Thaw in the spring
            To freeze again
Over and over
            To not forget.

Where, where, where, who, who, who
            Scatters dead flowers, turns
Earth into a crippled toy planet...  



First appeared in International Poetry Review

_______________________________

To read more of Danuta’s work here at Writing the Polish Diaspora, please click on the following link.  It will take you to her essay about translating and a number of her own poems and her translations from the Polish of poets Szymborska and Lidia Kosk.



Thursday, August 21, 2014

Laura Ulewicz: Polish American Poet

Recently, I was talking about Polish American writers with scholar Janusz Zalewski, and he mentioned Laura Ulewicz,  a poet who was friends with many of the Beat writers.  I was surprised to hear about her because I'm interested in both the Beats and Polish American writers.

Here's an article by Erica Goss, poet and host of the radio program Word to Word, A Show about Poetry, about her friendship with Laura Ulewicz.

Laura Ulewicz - Image - by Erica Goss - Awkword Paper Cut

(drawing of Laura Ulewicz by Erica Goss)

“To Laura Ulewicz, a kind of dragon” - Dedication, Views of Jeopardy by Jack Gilbert
   When the poet Laura Ulewicz passed away in October 2007, it took me by surprise, in spite of the fact that she was seventy-seven, and a smoker with a heart condition.  Laura, a part of my life since I was twelve years old, simply could not die.  She would always be in Locke, a quirky hamlet located in the Delta of the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers, living in the house she bought for three hundred dollars thirty years ago, and writing poems.  Laura was a true original, fiercely independent, and though she’s been called a Beat poet, she never included herself in any movement.  She lived on her own terms, and died that way too, in her beloved house that leaned to one side (like all of the houses in Locke) surrounded by her books, dogs, friends and the amazing gardens she grew from the black river mud of the Sacramento River.

1.

    Just before I turned twelve, my father introduced me to his new girlfriend.  Her name was Laura Ulewicz, and all I knew about her was that she was a poet he’d met through Kenneth Rexroth.  As a gesture of goodwill, she presented me with a big box of thrift store clothes as an early birthday gift.  I was a gawky, too-tall preadolescent painfully aware of my bony wrists and ankles; as I pulled pants, sweaters and blouses from the box, my heart sank.  I could tell none of them would fit.  My father and Laura insisted I model every outfit, so I trudged back and forth over the grass in the backyard of Laura’s East Bay home, hems between my ankle and calf, shirtsleeves ending at mid-forearm, wishing that the ground would open and swallow me whole.  Laura either noticed my discomfort or got tired of my pout, but she finally ended the backyard fashion show and we all went out for ice cream, something we would do often in the coming months.  Over our cones – she always ordered raspberry cheesecake – we both laughed when she admitted that she had imagined her new boyfriend’s daughter as a dainty child of about nine.  We forged a tentative friendship that day, one built on my fascination with her as a person and her grudging acceptance of me.

   Laura could be kind, and she could be cruel.  She would answer my endless questions about her life, her poems, places she had visited, and then dismiss me with a curt, “Well, I’m done.  Go away.”  I would slink off, hurt and disappointed.  She was unlike any person I had ever met, and I was forced to wait until she chose to notice me again. Here was a woman who had won an NEA grant, lived in a haunted house in Jamaica, traveled through Europe, slept in Golden Gate Park at age nineteen; she was a certified Bohemian, a Beat, friends with the San Francisco literati and, most important, a poet: proud, irritating, selfish, brilliant, daring.  She ran the I-Thou coffee house on Haight Street in the 1960s and always had at least two large, unruly dogs living with her.  She was committed to an asylum, escaped and hitch-hiked back home to Detroit, her mind damaged from electroshock treatments.

    When I met her, she lived in a flat in the East Bay, part of a house that had a large back yard.  In that back yard, Laura grew flowers whose names I committed to memory: sweet william, nemesia, linaria, cleome, nasturtium, alyssum: the names of Laura’s flowers were part of a secret language I longed to learn.  As she wrote in one of her last poems:

            These flowers I grow

            You call them old-fashioned.

            I never liked them as a child

            They were so common.

            Now they stand for something –

            What they lasted through –

            Now they are rare.


   An enormous milk thistle appeared in Laura’s flower garden, a wild, aggressive thing among the roses and lilies.  It grew taller and taller, spreading across the damp earth. The leaves were fringed with inch-long spikes.  Yet I agreed with Laura that it was a handsome plant, and couldn’t help noticing that the hummingbirds favored its flowers above the others.

   During the months Laura and my father lived together, I hung around her as much as possible, absorbing her tales of life in San Francisco during the Beat period, and later when the counter culture of the 1960s hit full force.  I heard stories of vacant-eyed teens fresh from the Midwest begging for food on Haight Street; the insufferable behavior of Neil Cassady, who dared a woman to kill herself (she did); how once on her way home from the I-Thou Coffee House, a man reached for Laura from the dark street, but her dog barked and frightened him off.  Ginsberg, Rexroth, McClure, Everson, Snyder, Gilbert and many other poets, writers and artists, were her friends and acquaintances.

   When she was in the mood, she would make a pot of strong coffee, light up the first of many cigarettes, and talk about her youth.  Born to a teenaged mother, Laura grew up in Detroit in the 1930s.  The town was surrounded by dense woods, and Laura spent hours alone, exploring the forest and observing nature.  She told me about the hobo camps hidden in the woods, the hungry men who gathered at night to share what little food and whiskey they had.  Although frequently at odds with her parents, she spoke fondly of an aunt who was a kindred spirit.  “I was in such a hurry to grow up,” she chuckled through a cloud of cigarette smoke.  “As soon as I could I left Detroit and came out west.”

   She was writing then, but too shy to show her poems to anyone.  Sometime during the 1950s, Laura met the poet Jack Gilbert, with whom she had a long and tempestuous relationship.  Gilbert dedicated his first book, Views of Jeopardy, which won the Yale Younger Poets award in 1962, to “Laura Ulewicz, a kind of dragon”.  It was a woman, also interested in Gilbert, who had Laura committed to Napa State Hospital as Laura struggled through a period of depression.  Her tales of escape from the hospital, of trekking haphazardly from the West Coast home to Detroit, were frightening and poignant at the same time.  She’d had electroshock therapy, and whole sections of her memory were erased.  “Once I found myself in Phoenix.  How the hell did I get to Phoenix?”  Often she would stop in the middle of a particularly harrowing story, stare into space, and forget about me, wide-eyed and hanging on her every word, as the threads of memory refused to come together.

   To my knowledge, Laura had never spent much time around kids before, and especially not teens.  Her patience with me frequently ran thin, and though she clearly enjoyed my slavish devotion, I was, to quote Sue Murphy, “always there.”  When school ended, my brother and I began our ten-week ritual of hanging around the house, eating enormous amounts of food, and complaining, while we gradually succumbed to the summertime blues.  By the middle of summer, Laura and my father split up and Laura  moved into the downstairs apartment.  If I was lucky, she would let me come down and visit, but the strain between her and my father showed in her short temper.  I was no longer welcome, and the long summer dragged slower than ever.

2.

   A few years ago, Laura told me that she had sent a poem out just once in her entire life, and it was rejected. From then on, she never submitted again, only offering poems if requested.  I wonder at this weakness in a woman who was such a fighter.  (As my father often quipped, “If there’s nothing to fight about, Laura will invent something.”)

   As a result, her list of publications is smaller than it should be – just one book of poems, The Inheritance, came out in 1967.  Her poems appeared in a variety of poetry journals, including Genesis West, Gargoyle, Massachusetts Review, and Poetry Review (UK), as well as the anthologies A Different Beat, A Gallery of Women and One-Eighty-Five.  Some of her poems were featured in a series of broadsides displayed throughout the Bay Area in the 1960s.

   Richard Peabody’s A Different Beat includes nine of Laura’s poems.  Read as a group, they create an elegiac mood, alternating between strong images, as in “Manhattan as a Japanese Print:” “In spring there are no skyscrapers. / Invisible flowers bloom between tall menaces” and autobiographical lines, as in “Pinpoint,” Laura’s rueful compendium of the Beat Movement: “It was as if we could live exchanges of being / With egg cartons covering the cracks in the wall / Through which the wind was blowing.”  Unlike many of her contemporaries, Laura did not write confessional poetry; most of the time, her poetry discourages a relationship between it and the reader, a sensibility it shares with the poetry of Elizabeth Bishop.

   Many of the poems collected in A Different Beat start with images of the natural world, evoking an almost hallucinatory quality as in this stanza from “Letter Three:”

            Stand where you will and think of the whales:

            How they’ll not come ambling the Umbrian hills

            or smile in your window, or nibble your grape leaves;

            but tunneling where they must to make their waves

            and break their waves to patterns of grape leaves,

            they will evade you, as the sea evades you.


   Through her use of repeated long vowel sounds she sets up a background for the wordplay of these lines.  The question simmering beneath this ominous, dreamlike vision resolves in these lines from the last stanza:

            When your last whale has died, you’ll still find left

            this fierce deliberate sun which grows – from which

            there is no ark, or no ark suitable –

            till sun on the land and on the ocean, sun,

            each summer day is a day of intolerant judgment.


   Again, repetition, this time of short words – sun, ark, day – underscores the poems’ anarchic themes: disorder, decay, the simultaneous strength and vulnerability of nature and humans’ inability to prevent disaster.  The judgment of summer days is devastating, and the lack of an ark tells us that there is no escape from some impending cataclysm.  By using the symbol of the whales – as bearers of mysteries vulnerable in their great size – Laura evokes the Earth itself, subject to the same frailties as the whales.

            “Letter Three” is, perhaps, anti-intellectual, a warning lacking compassion (“intolerant” indeed) but all the more effective for that lack.  There is no heartbreak here, but a clear, if cold, study.  Laura’s poems avoid all hints of emotional excess:  instead, they deal with how to negotiate the world and its problems.  The Beats were conspicuously public, trotting out their addictions, experiments and failures in poetry and thinly veiled fiction, yet these poems remain closed, like a fist curled around something precious.  In “Pinpoint,” for example, the poet offers no therapeutic dictums in the opening lines “It came like light out of the walls, / Like sunny days, like judgment.”  Laura describes the Beat movement as if it were a gigantic interruption, a metaphoric earthquake that moved the stale culture of the 1950s forward, both in time and place, a few important inches:  “It came. / And I no longer wanted to be anything / But simple.”  Reduce, ride it out, embrace it, but lightly – all movements need cool-eyed deconstruction.

   Laura’s role as a member of the Beat movement was not limited to that of dispassionate observer, but many of her poems function as snapshots of that era, taken, it seems, when her subjects were least aware of being photographed.  Her endnote to “Pinpoint” reads “Written in recollection of the days before a movement got stopped by being named and publicized too soon.  A. G., who stayed sane through fame, B. K., who changed radically through speed, and 1010 Montgomery which was torn down.”  A. G. and B. K. (Allen Ginsburg and Bob Kaufman; 1010 Montgomery was Ginsburg’s address in San Francisco when he wrote Howl) – one elevated by the Beat movement and the other destroyed by it – represent the extremes of experience that Laura was so adept at capturing.


3.

   After a few years, Laura and my father developed a close and lasting friendship.  When he retired in 2000, my father bought a house in Locke not far from Laura’s (Locke is so small that all the houses are a few minutes’ walk from each other.)  Laura drove my father to the store; he fixed her leaky shower.  When I visited, I would take them to Wimpy’s, a burger place with mediocre food, a dock for fishing boats and a great view of the east side of Mt. Diablo.  It was at Wimpy’s that Laura told me her favorite poem was Poe’s “Annabelle Lee” (was she pulling my leg?) and recited the first poem she’d ever written, something about a pussy cat.  “It was published in the newspaper,” she laughed, her pale blue eyes gazing at the scenery outside the fly-specked windows.

   Laura spent twenty-five years as a social worker for the County of Sacramento.  In her free time she wrote, gardened, walked her dogs, and held several positions on the Locke town council.  On the weekends she worked at one of Locke’s several art galleries.  After thirty years of tending, her garden was a sight to behold: pink cabbage roses draped the weathered wooden fence, and flowers mixed with vegetables in a charming, untidypotager.  A metal shed held her tools, and Laura spent sultry nights on its dirt floor, echoing her days as a young woman sleeping in Golden Gate Park.

   Laura’s smoking finally took its toll.  She had always been a sturdy, robust woman who consumed quantities of her own home-grown vegetables, but in her seventies she developed emphysema and heart disease.  In September of 2007, Laura landed in the hospital, but after a short stay insisted on returning home, against her doctor’s orders.  In October, a neighbor found Laura’s body slumped in a corner of her beloved house, under a bookshelf crammed with clay pots, papers, spider webs, dust and books.

   A few years before she died, I asked Laura over a Wimpy’s burger to tell me what poetry meant to her.  She waited for a long moment before she replied, “It’s been the focus of my life.  So many times I started revising, and before I knew it the sun was coming up because I’d been writing all night.”  I heard the unspoken statement – that this precarious existence she’d led, dressing herself from the thrift store, living hand-to-mouth most of her life – had been the price she paid for poetry, and that it had all been worth it.

   She gazed out the window at the water, the fishing boats floating near the dock, and the ducks moving away from the shore.  Her hands, wrinkled and spotted, lay on the table.  The dirt caked under her nails spoke of the years she’d spent working flowers – and poems – out of wet soil.

   Laura wrote the following as an accompaniment for a painting displayed in a Locke art show:
       
            Somehow I have not spoken,

            really, of the river

            so big, so obvious

            to our lives.  Surely,

            it works itself around

            all our words

            and moistens them.
Laura Ulewicz - Image - by Erica Goss - Awkword Paper Cut
Drawing of Ulewicz by Erica Goss
    The town of Locke put up a memorial for Laura that bears the simple inscription:  “Laura Ulewicz   1930-2007   Poet  Gardener  Friend.”  She would have enjoyed its spare summarization of her seventy-seven years on this earth, I think, finding the irony in what the lines leave out: Laura Ulewicz, a kind of dragon, lived here fiercely, loved the river and its black mud, and left us with her tough, clear poems.
- See more at: http://www.awkwordpapercut.com/laura-ulewicz-by-erica-goss.html#sthash.IJVaFIIC.dpuf


Monday, July 28, 2014

SLICING THE BREAD by Maja Trochimczyk


Maja Trochimczyk, poet, publisher, and scholar, has just published a new book of her own poems about the experiences of her Polish family during World War II and the Cold War.

These poems in Slicing the Bread: Children's Survival Manual in 25 Poems are written with the clarity of truth and the fullness of fine poetry.  If you feel that you have heard all there is to hear about those troubled times, you will learn in this book that you haven’t.  Her poetic mixing of family narrative and the memories of other survivors feels like the essential stories our own parents told us when they wanted us to know that there were experiences that we must never forget. 

Here are the stories of how the people she loved experienced hunger and suffering and terror so strong that it defined them and taught her, and teach us, the meaning of family.

The title poem “Slicing the Bread” is the best introduction to this work:


Slicing the Bread


Her mother’s hunger. One huge pot of hot water
with some chopped weeds –komesa, lebioda
she taught her to recognize their leaves,
just in case – plus a spoonful of flour
for flavor. Lunch for twenty people
crammed into a two-bedroom house.

The spring was the worst–flowers, birdsong,
and nothing to eat.  You had to wait
for the rye and potatoes to grow. The pantry
was empty. She was hungry. Always hungry.
She ate raw wheat sometimes. Too green,
The kernels she chewed –still milky –made her sick.

Thirty years after the war,
her mother stashed paper bags with sliced, dried bread
on top shelves in her Warsaw kitchen.
Twenty, thirty bags… enough food for a month.
Don’t ever throw any bread away, her mother said.
Remember, war is hunger.

Every week, her mother ate dziad soup –
fit for a beggar, made with crumbled wheat buns,
stale sourdough loaves, pieces of dark rye
soaked in hot tea with honey.
She liked it. She wanted to remember

its taste. 

_____________________________

This third poetry book by Maja Trochimczyk can be ordered now and will be printed and shipped in October.  The limited edition's pre-publication sales will determine the press run, so please reserve your copy now.  The books cost $14 each, plus $2.99 for shipping.  

You can order your copy of Slicing the Bread on the Finishing Line Press website by clicking here.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

A Letter from Joanna Kurowska

Dear Friends and Readers:

The spring is a fact! The weather treats us mild. I hope you have lots of energy for
outdoor activities. Metaphorically, “outdoors” is not just the woods or lakeshore but also
some much-needed FRESH AIR IN LANGUAGE! If you need a break from forms,
commercials and the (typically bad) TV news, come to poetry! It’s a different world, for
real!

READ POETRY, LISTEN TO IT, PONDER IT, LIVE IT!

An event to recommend is THE POETRY PENTATHLON: NORTH SHORE EDITION at Highland
Park Poetry. Please come and support the contestants, and meet the fellow poetry lovers! The 2014 Pentathlon will take place at Art Center of Highland Park, 1957, Sheridan Road Friday, June 13, 8:00–10:00 PM. (I will be one of the judges).

And a few reminders…

 Inclusions is out, now available both at Cervena Barva Press and Amazon.  If you would like to receive a signed copy, please contact me directly via e-mail or my website.

The Wall & Beyond has earned fourteen 5-star only reviews on Amazon  (twelve on Amazon US and two on Amazon UK). The book has been  earning outstanding reviews also in journals, both scholarly and literary;  most recently Debbie Young’s review in Vine Leaves. More reviews are  coming! I’ll keep you posted.

 My In-Print radio interview will be broadcast again this Saturday at  11:00. To listen, go to www.rockfordcollegeradio.com; or listen to the  podcast (available on my website, in the ABOUT section).

How did I become a poet writing in my second language?  I talk about it in my recent interview at Cervena Barva Press

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Ron Paul Salutsky's Romeo Bones



Steel Toe Books is one of the best small presses around.  Since 2003, publisher and oet Tom Hunley has been lovingly producing a series of books showcasing a number of excellent writers.

He's brought out books by poets like Mary Biddinger, Jeannine Hall Galley, Allison Joseph, and Michael Meyerhofer.  (And I'm happy to say Steel Toe publishes my book Lightning and Ashes.)

Last year, Steel Toe published a first book by a young Polish American poet, Ron Salutsky.

What I like about his poetry is the gift he has for opening up a moment to the complex mash-up of sorrows and joys, fears and wonderings that exist in it.  For me, that's the gift that all true poets share.

Here are a couple of Ron Salutsky's poems, the title poem "Romeo Bones" and "In Praise of Kool Filter Kings."


ROMEO BONES

Allergies today are puffed up
with caterpillar bones, old loves
and arbor tidings, pushed
by a humid wind,
moisture as fleeting as grief
for the death of second cousin Emma,
whom you used to play Lawn Darts
with on sunny summer holidays
when the family gathered
and gawked at the grill, as they do
now, talking of investments
in appetite, the politics
of meteorology, the state
of affairs of beer, the
demise of demise now
that everything's okay.
It's not okay you want to say,
and you do say, but you're
the youngest so no one listens.
Emma hears you and laughs
through the smoke, slings
a Lawn Dart so close
to your feet your toes tingle
with the expectation of pain
and the utter desire
for utter attention. Romeo Bones,
Romeo Bones
, she says
and you laugh but you have
no idea why. Pretty soon,
everyone's laughing and you don't
know why, but you laugh,
pretend to be in on the joke,
in on the whole thing, the punch line
missed, the world you're afraid
might be getting away
from you, the parents
who might not be your own,
the sky that might not really
be blue, the blue that might
not really be blue, the grassy
rug that might one day be
pulled out from under
your tiny feet.


IN PRAISE OF KOOL FILTER KINGS

If the sea had skin
you could roll it up over Florida

like a condom, prevent what you only
in the comfort of others’ mishaps call

the spread of Florida. And what’s so wrong
with Florida, then? There’s none

more existential crisis than 6:30 pm in Florida,
and you need not have driven there drunk

the night before, parked on the street
outside the Daytona Beach YMCA, rusty harmonica

on the dashboard and God knows what
looks like donut glaze on the jeans you cut

into jean shorts with a buck knife
just south of Valdosta. We’ve come to the shore,

by God, so we’ve conquered the shore,
quoth you, for puking-on

is 51% of ownership in business-friendly
Florida. The sea is not indifferent,

but rather calms you roaring in your ear.
There’s still half a tank of gas

and an unopened pack of menthols
you must have bought at a Gate

in St. Cloud, now what? You gave
a homeless girl four menthols

and a five-spot and she swore
she’d spend it on bean burritos

and she didn’t even cheapen the deal
by proffering a blowjob. The liquor stores

here never close because it’s the beach
and you know by the way your eyeballs burn

the sun will come up soon and you feel you should pray
but you don’t know what to pray to

and a blue crane perched on the arm
of a lifeguard chair somehow reminds you

there’s love in the world. Now what?

_______________________________

Romeo Bones is available from Steel Toe Books and Amazon.  Just click on either.

You can find out more about Ron Salutsky at his website.  Just click here.


Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Polish American Historical Association Conference, Jan 2014

Polish American Historical Association to Examine Critical Issues in the Past and Present of Polish Immigrant Communities
On January 2-4, 2014 in Washington D.C., PAHA will explore social, historical, and cultural aspects in the lives of Polish émigré communities in America  

Los Angeles, December 10, 2013 – On January 3 and 4, 2014, one of Polonia’s most venerable organizations will hold its Annual Meeting at the Marriott Wardman Park Hotel in Washington D.C. The conference will gather over 30 scholars presenting their current research during eight scholarly sessions dedicated to such topics as: Protest and Exile, Polish Immigrant and Ethnic Women, Between the Revolutionary War and World War II, Polish Immigrant and Ethnic Identities, Religious Leaders and Communities, and Stories of World War II. Individual presenters will discuss: Pułaski’s burial, Polish troops in the American Civil War, General Bolesław Wieniawa-Długoszowski, Pope John Paul II in America, World War II mementos and family histories, Polish children in exile, Polish-Jewish émigré composers and their inclusion into Polish music history, writings by women, American support for Warsaw in 1944, Polish-American press in Canada and the U.S., careers of second generation émigrés, Polish documents at the Library of Congress, dialects in Polish folk theater, and much more. 

A special book forum will be dedicated to Mieczysław B.B. Biskupski’s The United States and the Rebirth of Poland, 1914–18 (with comments by noted historians Prof. Neal Pease, University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee and Prof. James Pula, Purdue University North Central). The Conference will end with a screening of Mariusz Kotkowski’s Pola Negri: Life is a Dream in Cinema  held on Saturday, January 4, 2014: 5:30 PM Marriott Wardman Park, Jefferson Room. 

PAHA Annual Awards for research in the field of Polish American Studies will be announced during the Annual Awards Banquet on Friday, January 3, 2014. Registration is open on PAHA Website: www.polishamericanstudies.org.

About PAHA
The Polish American Historical Association is a non-profit, tax-exempt, interdisciplinary organization devoted to the study of Polish American history and culture. Founded in 1942 as part of the Polish Institute of Arts and Sciences in America, PAHA became an autonomous scholarly society in 1948. As an affiliate of the American Historical Association, PAHA promotes research and dissemination of scholarly materials focused on Polish American history and culture, and its European origins.  PAHA publishes a biannual scholarly journal, Polish American Studies and a quarterly newsletter. The organization sponsors an annual conference, in conjunction with the American Historical Association, which serves as a forum for research in the field of ethnic studies.  The organization confers the annual Haiman Award for sustained scholarly effort in the field of Polish American Studies, awards the annual Halecki Prize for the best book on a Polish American topic and the annual Swastek Prize for the best article appearing in Polish American Studies, as well as sponsors many other awards. PAHA has over 600 international members, including both individual and institutional memberships; membership is open to all individuals interested in the fields of Polish American history and culture, and immigration studies. In 2011, PAHA sponsored the critically acclaimed Polish American Encyclopedia, published by McFarland and edited by Prof. James Pula.

More information:

Dr. Maja Trochimczyk, Ph.D.
Online Communications Director
& PAHA News editor
PAHANews.blogspot.com
818 384 8944


Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Today the Poles are Burning -- "Dziś Polacy się palą"

Dear Friends,

Those who live in Warsaw or its surroundings may be interested in attending
the poetry reading associated with the publication of a bilingual
poetry chapbook 
of Polish American poets, by Antraktcafe Press: "Dziś Polacy się palą" -
"Today the Poles are Burning" - poems of Phil Boiarski, Linda Nemec Foster,
John Guzlowski, Leonard Kress, Mark Pawlak, and Cecilia Woloch.

The event will occur at the Aktraktcafe, Warsaw, Pl. Pilsudskiego 9, Thursday, November 28, 10:00pm.

Poems will be read by Elżbieta Wojnowska and Andrzej Seweryn.  
There will also be a briefing on publishing poetry, by Guido Zlatkes, 2013 Fulbright Fellow.  For more details, please go to to http://antraktcafe.pl/

If we are lucky, we may also have a bite of free turkey that evening!

With Kind Regards


Janusz Zalewski
poems translator -- http://antraktcafe.pl/