tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61428579713792512772024-03-05T01:06:33.931-08:00Writing the Polish DiasporaNews and information for Polish Writers and Writers of the Polish DiasporaJohn Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.comBlogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-90104125056253790702021-08-24T10:36:00.001-07:002021-08-24T10:36:42.383-07:00Maria Czapska and Her Memoir of the Warsaw Uprising<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The following piece about Maria Czapska and her memoir of the Warsaw Uprising was written by Ted Lipien. Mr. Lipien is an international media executive, journalist, writer, blogger, and press freedom advocate. He worked in and wrote about US international broadcasting for over 40 years, beginning as a radio announcer for the Voice of America in 1973 and serving most recently as the President of Radio Free Europe.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">MARIA CZAPSKA'S MEMOIR OF THE WARSAW UPRISING</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">To house a half a century of books my wife and I collected from several continents, I built a library last winter in the basement of our house in Portland, Oregon, where we now live after many moves. As I discovered later, there was an unexpected benefit to this do-it-yourself project, which required purchasing and assembling more than a dozen of Swedish IKEA bookcases made in Mexico with intriguing names: Billy and Kallax. As I was arranging our books on the shelves, I found many Polish books that I have not looked at for years and even decades. Glancing through some of them, I rediscovered something I had already known when I first bought them or got them from friends. The refugee authors whom I had read with a great passion shortly after coming to the United States in 1970 as an immigrant from communist-ruled Poland were primarily concerned with protecting history from being forgotten. </span></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">These Polish émigré writers (I prefer to call them refugee writers) were even more worried that history was being distorted in the communist world, but also in the West. They saw history being used for hiding the truth and saw the spreading of falsehoods diametrically opposite of the historical truth. They also saw half-truths about history being used in the West for ideological battles. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">I felt bad that I had not kept more of the trust they put in the printed word by doing more to share it in translation with American readers, although in the case of some Polish refugee authors, among them Czesław Miłosz and Józef Czapski, I continued to buy, read and cite their books in English translations and to note books about them written in English. But as I rediscovered, my Polish books, many of them less known memoirs published after World War II in Great Britain, France and the United States, contain much valuable information about history which is not found in English-language books. I also found many amazing links between the authors of these books and other authors and journalists, some of whom had worked with me at the Voice of America or had worked there before I joined VOA in December 1973. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">One of the history books I reread this weekend was by a Polish refugee writer Maria Czapska, the beloved sister of the more famous Polish writer and painter Józef Czapski. The book, "Dwugłos wspomnień," loosely translated from Polish as "Two Voices of Memories" consists of three essays, one by him and two by Maria Czapska. The book was published in London in 1965. Józef Czapski's earlier historical account of his imprisonment in Soviet Russia and the Soviet murder of thousands of Polish military officers who were his fellow prisoners, was censored by the Voice of America in 1950. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Maria Czapska never worked for the Voice of America, but she survived the German occupation of Poland and provided vivid accounts of her underground anti-Nazi resistance work. During the war, she organized humanitarian aid to the Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto and wrote a program for the Błyskawica (Lightning) radio station of the 1944 Warsaw Uprising which broadcast in Polish, English, French and German. English-language Błyskawica broadcasts were prepared by the future director of Radio Free Europe Polish Service Jan Nowak Jeziorański. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">In her Warsaw Uprising diary, Maria Czapska also describes Radio Moscow broadcasts urging the people of Warsaw to rise up against the Germans, falsely giving credit for the launch of the fighting to the Polish Communists, who represented a tiny portion of the anti-Nazi underground movement in Poland, and later condemning the leaders of the Uprising loyal to the legal Polish government in London for leading a "fascist disturbance." Czapska also describes British broadcasts from London but never mentions the Voice of America. References to VOA cannot be found in any wartime Polish memoirs I have read, most likely because VOA broadcasts at that time were pro-Soviet, contained no first-hand information from Poland, and those writing their memoirs after the war did not want to criticize VOA after it dropped its pro-Kremlin programming and started to be critical toward Moscow and communism in the early 1950s.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Maria Czapska mentions meeting during the Warsaw Uprising the elderly mother of the Polish Government-in-Exile Ambassador in Washington Jan Ciechanowski. She could not know it when she wrote in her diary during the Uprising, but Ambassador Ciechanowski kept warning the Roosevelt Administration and members of the U.S. Congress about Soviet sympathizers being in charge of Voice of America Polish and English wartime broadcasts. These pro-Moscow Voice of America wartime broadcasters included Howard Fast in charge in 1943 of English-language VOA news. After leaving VOA he was an activist and journalist in the Communist Party USA and in 1953 received the Stalin Peace Prize. Czapska also mentions the death during the Warsaw Uprising of both sons of Wiktor Plater. They were relatives of Konstanty Broel Plater, a Polish journalist and former diplomat who resigned from the Voice of America in 1944 in protest against VOA broadcasting Soviet propaganda lies. As far as I was able to find out in my research of the Office of War Information archives and personnel files of OWI employees, Konstanty Broel Plater was the only VOA journalist who resigned during World War II in protest against VOA’s Soviet propaganda, but he did not publicize his protest for many years after the war most likely because he thought that he was forbidden from talking about it by a secrecy agreement which all VOA employees had to sign at that time.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Present in Warsaw during the Warsaw Uprising was Zofia Korbońska who maintained secret radio communications with London. Maria Czapska does not mention her, but Zofia Korbońska collaborated with the Błyskawica Warsaw Uprising radio station. After her escape from Poland in 1947 together with her husband Stefan Korboński, who was the last civilian chief of the Polish underground state during the German occupation, Zofia Korbońska was later my mentor and colleague at the Voice of America Polish Service.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">The second essay by Maria Czapska describes her secret trip to the Warsaw Ghetto in 1941 using false identity papers and her meeting with Dr. Janusz Korczak (Henryk Goldszmit). He organized an orphanage for Jewish children before the war and ran it in the ghetto also during the German occupation. He was later murdered by the Germans in a gas chamber together with his students whom he refused to leave.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">While former Voice of America broadcasters like Mira Michałowska and Stefan Arski, aka Artur Salman, were helping to establish a communist system in Poland, Maria Czapska escaped from Poland in December 1945 by illegally crossing the border and joined her brother in France. Many Polish anti-Nazi underground Armia Krajowa or AK (Home Army) members were being arrested, tortured and executed by the communist regime. Some were being sent to Soviet prisons and Gulag camps. The communist propaganda accused these former anti-Nazi fighters of being fascists. One of the chief communist regime propagandists was former Voice of America editor Stefan Arski. He produced anti-American propaganda and promoted the Soviet lie about the Katyn massacre. Former VOA broadcaster Mira Złotowska Michałowska, who went back to Poland and married a high-ranking communist diplomat, published an article in Harper's magazine in 1946 in which she argued that Communists in Poland believed in the rule of law. Maria Czapska countered such communist propaganda but mostly in France.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">While living in France Maria Czapska did some support work for Kultura, the Paris-based émigré journal and publishing house. I do not remember whether I had corresponded with her, but for a short period of time in the 1970s I was one of Kultura’s publicity agents in the United States. It was strictly a volunteer job which I had to give up because of increasing demands for my free time from my work at VOA. The VOA management did not forbid such volunteer work but in the 1970s looked at most outside activities by refugee journalists with some suspicion. I got the Czapskis’ book from Tomasz Dobrowolski, my late former colleague at the Voice of America Polish Service who was Kultura’s representative before me. Like Józef Czapski, Tomasz Dobrowolski was a wartime prisoner in the Soviet Union. It is very likely that Maria Czapska and I were in contact at that time, but the letters I had received from Kultura disappeared when we were changing houses. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Maria Czapska wrote about history and I suspect that in her support role at Kultura she encouraged publishing articles about the German occupation of Poland, the Jewish Holocaust, and the Warsaw Uprising. Kultura published in 1953 an article by a Polish journalist who had worked in London during the war and made an observation about Soviet propaganda influence over the Voice of America broadcasts. Stalin ordered the Red Army to halt their offensive against the Germans and refused to provide assistance to the fighting Poles in Poland's capital. He calculated that the Germans would do the work of killing patriotic Poles who might oppose his plans to install a communist government in Poland completely loyal to Moscow. The Uprising ended after 63 days. The Polish anti-Nazi fighters were defeated and about 200,000 Warsaw inhabitants, most of them civilians, were killed. The Germans reduced the city to ruins. Writing in Kultura, Czesław Straszewicz described how the wartime Voice of America ignored the 1944 Warsaw Uprising precisely because the Soviets would want VOA to ignore it. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">"With genuine horror we listened to what the Polish language programs of the Voice of America (or whatever name they had then), in which in line with what [the Soviet news agency] TASS was communicating, the Warsaw Uprising was being completely ignored. I remember as if it were today when the (Warsaw) Old Town fell [to the Germans] and our spirits sank, the Voice of America was broadcasting to the allied nations describing for listeners in Poland in a happy tone how a woman named Magda from the village Ptysie made a fool of a Gestapo man named Mueller."</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">While Czapska's brother was censored by the Voice of America in 1950, he and she often participated in Radio Free Europe Polish broadcasts which never resorted to this kind of censorship. Another refugee writer who was censored in the 1970s by the Voice of America was Nobel Prize laureate Alexandr Solzhenitsyn. This kind of censorship was not lifted at the Voice of America until the Reagan Administration took office in 1981 and carried out management and programming reforms at VOA. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">I am quite convinced that without the hard work of courageous women, Maria Czapska and Zofia Korbońska, the falsifiers of history would have had a much easier time to keep Communists in control of East-Central Europe and the Voice of America would not have been able to contribute as much as it later did to the fall of communism in the Soviet Block. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">The contributions of these exceptional women are not sufficiently appreciated and false historical accounts are becoming more common in the media and even in scholarly literature. The Voice of America management today is itself contributing to the falsification of history by its own selective use of historical facts and half-truths in various promotional materials found on the web. Voice of America continues to present the first VOA Director, Hollywood actor John Houseman, as a defender of truthful journalism when in fact he saw himself as a propagandist and hired many of the communists who worked on early VOA broadcasts. One of the communists he recruited who already worked for the Office of War Information (OWI) was Howard Fast. The Voice of America management has never admitted that the Roosevelt Administration forced John Houseman to resign because of his excessive pro-Soviet sympathies. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">One of the photographs from my library shows Józef Czapski's self-portrait at the Soviet Starobielsk POW camp for Polish officers. Several thousands of them were secretly executed by the Soviets in Katyn in April and May 1940. The second photograph shows Czapski's portrait of his sister Maria Czapska. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">For those interested in learning more about Józef Czapski and his art, I highly recommend Eric Karpeles' book, "Almost Nothing: The 20th-Century Art and Life of Józef Czapski," published by New York Review Books in 2018. There is also a Wikipedia entry in English for Józef Czapski and a much shorter one for Maria Czapska.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Unfortunately, no major book has been written in English about Maria Czapska.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Czapskis descended from various noble families in several Central-European countries. Their ancestors were Baltic-German, Austrian, Russian and Polish. Their father was a Polish count raised in Saint Petersburg speaking French, Russian, and German and did not learn Polish until his university years. Their mother’s Polish name was Józefa Czapska, but she was born Josephine von Thun und Hohenstein. Her brother was at one time the prime minister of the Austrian imperial government. After marrying a Pole, she adopted Poland as her homeland, learned Polish, and raised her children to become Polish patriots. They grew up on their family estate near Minsk, present day Belarus. Having a German mother and speaking German could have easily given Maria Czapska an opportunity to claim German citizenship during the German occupation of Poland. Instead, she joined the anti-Nazi resistance movement and organized humanitarian aid for the Jews, helping some of them survive the war. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Józef Czapski’s biographer, Eric Karpeles, wrote about Józef and Marynia, as she was called by her family and friends, “Each was a mixture in almost equal parts of democrat, aristocrat, bohemian and ecumenical Catholic.” Karpeles wrote that Józef and Marynia were in their youth attracted to what he called "a kind of humanitarian socialism." Marynia was more religious of the two. Despite all the suffering that he had experienced and witnessed in Russia, Józef Czapski had a deep sympathy for the Russian people and was greatly pained that Russian culture was being destroyed under the Soviet system. He met and admired Russian poet Anna Akhmatova. He also met with Alexandr Solzhenitsyn after the Russian writer was forced by the Soviet regime to go into exile.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Józef Czapski was a pacifist, but he enlisted in the Polish Army to do non-combat duties. When he and his sister lived in Paris in the 1920s, he was in love with Sergey Nabokov, the gay younger brother of famous Russian writer Vladimir Nabokov. Sergey Nabokov was arrested by the Nazis in Berlin and died in Neuengamme, a large labor camp near Hamburg in January 1945 from dysentery, starvation and exhaustion. Their cousin, Nicolas Nabokov, a composer and cultural figure, worked at the Voice of America on the first VOA Russian broadcast in 1947. Even though VOA broadcast in dozens of foreign languages during the war, incredibly it did not broadcast in Russian, almost certainly out of fear that VOA Russian broadcasts might offend Stalin. Even in 1947, the first Russian broadcasts carefully avoided any direct criticism of Stalin and the Soviet Union. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">It took several more years for VOA to change its policy of censoring criticism of communist regimes but it did during the Truman Administration. The Truman Administration quietly laid off many Soviet sympathizers among post war VOA officials and journalists. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">Józef Czapski was one of the last victims of the pro-Soviet censorship at VOA when he was invited to record a program to Poland during his visit to the United States in 1950 and discovered that VOA refused to air the segments in which he talked about Katyń. The censoring of Józef Czapski by VOA was noted by members of Congress and their criticism of VOA’s management was printed in the Congressional Record. A year after Józef Czapski’s program for the Voice of America was censored, Ambassador Ciechanowski, whose mother Maria Czapska mentioned in her Warsaw Uprising diary, told VOA officials that their broadcasts were still “drab” and “unconvincing” for radio listeners in Poland, but they were soon improved by the Truman Administration. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;">When I was in charge of the Voice of America Polish Service in the 1980s, our correspondent Wacław Bniński recorded an interview with Józef Czapski.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;"><span style="animation-name: none !important; font-family: inherit; transition-property: none !important;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl py34i1dx gpro0wi8" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F7NQjGRasZn0%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR3b4whJ0X5VXr5TxxV7rQ3m1MObDiOZ5za7kJr3_EWkj_W36jQ3ez8cSJ0&h=AT1McaIFt6p_WQYCrnHfh7nrDOHEYhDx96YJv9SGu9V90OB9i7PPgfjJCyynyWVS9czyXpEtUKUKVbY24biyabitgybVxVF4N-ZBNxkbQX5QolRx-sMAzDCRLNVYPGzkKommFyerOXj225g&__tn__=-UK-R&c[0]=AT0v-02a62RBnVu-GpeqwfVxWB5Z7qqvqsVzNgNVHLAAF0WK-OHU_RK-eOqDbyzwed07oV039HGJRxAmtd4bs5QHOkn5xG6polFWXxZ01raRnWiXa_pX5hZYVbCs0UFg50BnKd-KZBtnWyPmRuM-UyAUCVw" rel="nofollow noopener" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; animation-name: none !important; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation; transition-property: none !important;" tabindex="0" target="_blank">https://youtu.be/7NQjGRasZn0</a></span></div></div>John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-88747530318085346252020-10-15T09:09:00.003-07:002020-12-17T11:47:58.517-08:00Pilot and Girl by Danuska Blaszek<p> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: bold; white-space: pre-wrap;">Danuska Blaszek</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; font-size: 16px; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="qowt-font4-BookAntiqua" face=""Book Antiqua", "Palatino Linotype", serif !important" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E133" style="display: inline; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: bold; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Book Antiqua, Palatino Linotype, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Danuska Blaszek is a Polish poet who lives in the United States and Poland. Her poetry has appeared in numerous books and anthologies. Her English books Lily Equation and Mathematics vs. Poetry are both available on Amazon along with her Polish books.</span></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; font-size: 16px; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="qowt-font4-BookAntiqua" face=""Book Antiqua", "Palatino Linotype", serif !important" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E133" style="display: inline; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: bold; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pilot and Girl</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; font-size: 16px; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="qowt-font4-BookAntiqua" face=""Book Antiqua", "Palatino Linotype", serif !important" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E133" style="display: inline; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: bold; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>I asked Danuska Blaszek what inspired her to write the following poem. Here's what she said:</b></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">The series of poems "Pilot & Girl" was inspired by the group paralotnie.pl. I participated in one of the first paragliding courses in the 90s. Our emotional commitment was great. We were overwhelmed by the freedom to fly without medical tests, no fitness requirements, no age limits. </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Krysiek Kaczynski -- my instructor, Rafal Maszczak -- the organizer of our internet meetings and Rysiek Lutoslawski, although I had never seen him on a paraglider, was our guru. Older than us, he about flying on Migs, about clouds ... Some phrases come from him and a story about a night flight in an autumn drizzle ... This is connected with the story of Marta Berowska, about her mother's friend who killed himself on a glider. But after reading the poems, Rysiek asked how I know that he had an accident ...</p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">pilot and girl</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">you know Richard</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I sometimes stand on the balcony</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">among white sheets smelling of soap</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the sky beckons</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">and I don't know which to choose</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">wings or sails</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the foam of clouds or the wave of lakes</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I fear the allure of space</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the magnetism of the sky</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">you know Danuska I've never been afraid of space, </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">though only fools are free from fear, they say</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">only once that uncontrollable fright</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">a night flight in a November drizzle</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">over a thick layer of clouds</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">smooth as a mirror</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">outer space, my love, without God or Earth</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the stars down there and the sharp scream of the Moon</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the sky below and above</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I followed the instruments</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">they helped me survive</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">later, an old pilot told me</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">it so happens sometimes that the sky is reflected in the smooth surface of the clouds</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">as in a mirror</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">we've only written to each other</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">we've never met</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I fear our meeting</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">my frightened eyes look back at me from the mirror</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">II.</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">you ask me Danuska why I smoke a hundred cigarettes a day</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">this is how it started</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I was a child</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">they killed the Warsaw uprising and my sister and I</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">were separated from our parents in the Pruszkow camp</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">a kind soul took us away on a wagon filled with dead bodies</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">my sister and I ran as fast as we could</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">she was little, I not much older than her</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">we fell asleep cuddled</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">in a cargo car on a dead-end railroad in the woods</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">we woke up locked inside</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">listening to the heavy breathing of the train</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">trapped with no food or water</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">we were saved by bombs</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">we escaped through a hole in the roof</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the locomotive breathed heavily in the ditch</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I tried to earn money to buy food</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">a field cook found me</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">old Wasilenko fed me</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I felt guilty</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">my sister died of starvation</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the cook rolled my first cigarette</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">later in a flat taken over from a German</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I played with a toy car</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the cook along with other Bolsheviks died in the war</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I learned how to smoke</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">III.</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">cumulus clouds, soft as the fleece of a lamb</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">haven't you ever wanted to stroke them?</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">to taste them as you would taste cotton candy?</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">and lie on them like on a duvet?</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">tell me, why do birds avoid clouds?</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">Danuska clouds can be dangerous</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I'll tell you about it</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">It was sunny</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">cumulus clouds were resting in the sky</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I was spinning up towards the sun up, up and up</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">higher and higher</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">suddenly I entered a cloud</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">it started swelling</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">it was sucking me up into the sky</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I didn't want to go there</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I didn't take oxygen</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">a cumulomnibus was born and inside it as in another world</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">hurricanes from the earth to the sky</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I was carried by tornadoes</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">aerial frenzy of winds</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I heard a sound</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">a wing broke away from the glider</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I jumped out</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I couldn't open the parachute</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">(don't do it inside a cloud,</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the cloud will catch it like an umbrella and won't let you go down to the ground)</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I was waiting until my eyes could see</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">something other than the graying milk of the cloud</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the fear grew</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">does this cloud, like fog, reach the ground?</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the fuselage of my glider went past me</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I survived</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I saw grass, trees</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the orange canopy of my parachute bloomed above me</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the sky was black now</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">tell me unknown pilot</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">you're not like cotton candy</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I have to be careful like those birds</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">IV </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I quit smoking</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I don't want to think about it</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I'm painting my room</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">you're saying Menet has died</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">one more friend gone</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">he still lives in my heart</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">we used to fly together</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the charming times of pilots hooligans</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">we were flying over bridges and lakes</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">we were flying so low that the gust created by the propeller</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">overturned sailboats</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">we found that bridge in Liwiec</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">you know that little palace in Liwa</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">it was easy to escape the militia there</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">Menet was doing aerobatics</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I managed to fly under that small bridge upside down</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">then Menet took our friend over Liwiec</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">he was a young lad but quite brash</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">later that youngster wanted to fly under the bridge by himself</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">he split up the two banks of the river</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">wrecked the plane</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">a major uproar</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">there were lots of flowers on his grave</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">and Menet and I were making new plans</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">fate separated us</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">you're asking what I'm doing</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I'm painting my apartment</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the walls have yellowed from the smoke</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif;">IV</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", Tinos, "Baskerville Old Face", "Bell MT", serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">warm and caring</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">as if straight from my dreams</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">not a stranger anymore</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">but not familiar yet</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">you run into the sky</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">right under the cumulus clouds</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">and say from there</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I'll come back or I won't</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">so I call into the cloudy night</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">should I only be a girl</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">from swirling outer space?</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I was flying a Mig</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">guided by orders into a cloud</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the weather was nice</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">too nice to die</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the cloud looked menacing</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I radioed the tower </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the artificial horizon was turning madly</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I wasn't flying the plane</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the wind was</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">it blew out the fire of the engine</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">fear once, fear twice</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">if I survive the third wave of fear</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">you'll be mine</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I'll give you</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the twisted skin of the plane</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the pieces of the wings</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">the dislocated rivets</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"> </span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I put on my armour</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;">I built a fortress around my heart</span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, Tinos, Baskerville Old Face, Bell MT, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="qowt-stl-Normal" id="E132" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E132" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; list-style-type: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">translated by Anna Sledziewska-Bolinska</p>John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-58987034218467241862018-12-17T10:53:00.002-08:002018-12-17T10:53:38.063-08:00GOD THROUGH BINOCULARS -- A HITCHHIKER AT A MONASTERY<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOHUytOzlpznAkFcfiAU6gzGy7MC00fP6kaHRTQYUTq4PnFx_SIlB9yDPT5lPrEsEuWkzrNAzvPHBGdjTA7bV6hW04j_zP_pauZkjrF5k961d4xzjT9WrD2eT_03Z5P5Vfhh2gHnznuAuQ/s1600/47573661_198456597658998_120015551052382208_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOHUytOzlpznAkFcfiAU6gzGy7MC00fP6kaHRTQYUTq4PnFx_SIlB9yDPT5lPrEsEuWkzrNAzvPHBGdjTA7bV6hW04j_zP_pauZkjrF5k961d4xzjT9WrD2eT_03Z5P5Vfhh2gHnznuAuQ/s320/47573661_198456597658998_120015551052382208_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Gothic";">Danusha Goska is a writer, essayist, and memoirist who has written some of the most engaging prose I've read in the last 20 years. Every book and every essay she writes draws me, gets me thinking, shakes me up in some way that always finally helps me see things with the clarity she brings to every topic.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Gothic";">In her most recent book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/God-Through-Binoculars-Hitchhiker-Monastery/dp/1947067613/ref=sr_1_1_twi_pap_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1545072500&sr=1-1">God through Binoculars: A Hitchhiker at a Monastery</a> (available at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/God-Through-Binoculars-Hitchhiker-Monastery/dp/1947067613/ref=sr_1_1_twi_pap_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1545072500&sr=1-1">Amazon</a>), she does it again as she writers about a spiritual quest she undertook. The great books about such journeys never give you easy answers. They don't say, </span>"Do these 10 things and you will find peace or faith or salvation." Goska knows this truth. She has lived this truth. As you read this beautifully written, witty, and inspiring book, you will find yourself not only following her journey, you will find yourself living your own journey. </div>
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Here is an except from Goska's powerful book.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6A4aUXUT1V70PWpOWL-RWcGw_f5N9U5TM_VMYZuAmg_at1T-DtluAlwP6qtt2w44LogBMwAaB_V51Eow9rE9rSxiB-TYg0wgwlOSo6fzkV6uq7f-ksYzmpsorLilNxQbQURmszoNMJ8WF/s1600/48373758_2218073748462301_3278422303100108800_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1220" data-original-width="846" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6A4aUXUT1V70PWpOWL-RWcGw_f5N9U5TM_VMYZuAmg_at1T-DtluAlwP6qtt2w44LogBMwAaB_V51Eow9rE9rSxiB-TYg0wgwlOSo6fzkV6uq7f-ksYzmpsorLilNxQbQURmszoNMJ8WF/s320/48373758_2218073748462301_3278422303100108800_n.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
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The Dudh Kosi or River of Milk drains Mount
Everest. It glimmers in its gorge, turquoise and silver. I once trekked along
it, to a spot where it joined one of its seven sister rivers. The confluence of
rivers is sacred in Hinduism. I encountered a sannyasi seated in lotus position
in the sand and gravel at the place where the rivers joined. Sannyasis'
renunciation of the world is so severe that they perform their own funerals
before taking to the wilderness. This sannyasi was naked except for ashes. His
limbs were as slim and slack as jute ropes. His dreadlocked hair was piled atop
his head. Once he had taken his vow, that hair was never again combed or cut.
There was nothing anywhere near him except for the fierce V of mountains rising
up thousands of feet from the rushing river's bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The rise of those mountains was an act of
aggression to me. As I trekked, I felt the mountains to be my enemies, eager to
cause me pain, thwart and humiliate me. And yet I adored their beauty. The
Himalayas are active; they grow a couple of inches every year, as the Indian
subcontinent pushes into the Asian landmass. There were no people; I was the
lone other. There were only the parrots down low in the gorge, winging,
carefree, from river bank to river bank, their highway air; their concern with
the pitch of the mountains minimal. Then, rising higher, there would be crows,
then, still higher, lammergeier, vultures that eat bone. The mountains bullied
even sunlight; it visited only in slants. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The sannyasi said nothing to me, and I said
nothing to him. I thought of everything he had renounced, from peanut M&Ms
to romantic comedies to the contents of the Encyclopedia Britannica to crying
over a broken heart to worrying about the future to telling a friend about last
night's dream. What did he receive in exchange? I wondered what he knew, if
anything. I kept walking. I was on my way to a Peace Corps conference, the
closest thing to a Roman orgy I'd ever know. We'd eat till sick, dance, flirt,
copulate. That sannyasi would be with me, every moment. I'd be thinking of him.
What does he know that I cannot access? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I just googled "Dudh Kosi" to revisit
this river in photos. I see that now it hosts organized white-water rafters. I
wonder what the sannyasi makes of them. I wonder if he ever thinks of me; no,
not really; of course I know that he has never thought of me. I think of him
often. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have long had this question: are contemplatives,
the Desert Fathers, the Desert Mothers, and all those who leave society and go
off on their lonesome – Tibetan monks, Hindu sadhus, Buddha, John the Baptist –
are they truly holy? Or are they merely crabby misfits who couldn't get laid
and are too lazy or soul-dead to engage in conventional hygiene?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Entering the wilderness temporarily to contemplate
a difficult question or to realign yourself when you are off track is a
necessary thing. In the Bible, Elijah left society and slept under a juniper
tree. There, Elijah was commanded, "Go forth, and stand upon the mount
before the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind
rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord
was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in
the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the
fire. And after the fire a still small voice." <o:p></o:p></div>
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That's where God was. God was not in the special
effects: not in the wind, the broken rocks, or the earthquake. God was in the
"still, small voice" that Elijah had to leave society, and enter the
wilderness, to hear. A quote from the Desert Fathers and Mothers: "Stay in
your cell, and your cell will teach you everything." I respect staying in
one's cell for short stretches. It's the lifelong rejection of society that
gives me pause. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We tend to stereotype urban life as stressful, and
country living in wide-open spaces as healthy and stress-free. My mother grew
up in a village in Slovakia. I visited Kovarce in the 1970s and it was
postcard-perfect. Kovarce was surrounded by fields of blue rye and red poppies.
Clouds of white butterflies rose into the sky. In the hills, wild boar
announced their presence with heavy pants. And the cuckoo – such a tender
punctuation to the drawn-out ripple of the breeze caressing leaves. Uncle John
built an indoor toilet for our visit; before that, all he had was an outhouse.
He didn't even have a refrigerator. When he wanted something to eat, he didn't
stand in front of a cold, white light and stare at leftovers. He went into his
backyard and dug up his meal, or picked it, or chopped off its head. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My mother grew up in that idyllic, rural setting.
She told me that there was one guy in the village who didn't fit in. He hung
himself. She and her brother Joe peeked in the window. She remembered the
corpse's black tongue sticking out of its mouth. The entire village came out
for his funeral, as they did for all funerals. They marched in the funeral
procession. They sang loudly, as they always did – Slovaks do love to sing –
and they wailed loudly, as they always did. She told me that if anyone had paid
that kind of loving attention to this poor misfit before he died, he probably
wouldn't have killed himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I grew up on stories like that. Village beatings,
murders, feuds, conspiracies, and chicken thieves – and this was just our own
family. I knew that the perfect rural image is not what urbanites want it to
be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Contrary to what we moderns want to believe about
our "stressful" urban lives, and rural peace and tranquility, rural
people are far more likely to commit suicide than urban ones. Young, rural
Americans are almost twice as likely to kill themselves as young, urban
Americans. It seems that there may be something salubrious about spending time
around other people, and something stressful about being alone in the back of
the beyond. <o:p></o:p></div>
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________________</div>
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Danusha Goska's <a href="https://www.amazon.com/God-Through-Binoculars-Hitchhiker-Monastery/dp/1947067613/ref=sr_1_1_twi_pap_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1545072500&sr=1-1">God Through Binoculars -- A Hitchhiker at a Monastery</a> is available as a paperback or kindle at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/God-Through-Binoculars-Hitchhiker-Monastery/dp/1947067613/ref=sr_1_1_twi_pap_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1545072500&sr=1-1">Amazon</a>.</div>
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John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-59501917399418717672018-08-16T10:54:00.000-07:002018-08-16T10:54:42.044-07:00Landings by Andrena Zawinski<div style="font-family: "Open Sans", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; padding: 0px;">
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Polish-American poet Andrena Zawinski has recently published a new book of poems entitled <i>Landings</i>. The book was review by Joan Gelfand in the <i>Los Angeles Review</i></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">It’s tempting to bury our pasts. Haunted by the ghosts of family dysfunction, financial strain and personal shame, Andrena Zawinski’s <i>Landings </i>is a collection of unflinching poems that confront personal and political violence, global upheaval and senseless loss, all the while remaining true to close observation and creating beauty from tragedy.</span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">In “Rosie Times,” the poet plays loose with irony, recounting her mother’s story working as a “Liberty Girl” in Northeastern factories during WWII: “Draped in white overalls, hair wrapped in a red scarf / Under a hard hat, clear goggles shielding her amber eyes / She welded Pressed Steel’s box cars outside Pittsburgh.” Despite the no-nonsense work ethic and hard living her mother endured, she retained a love of a good time. But she also neglected to protect the daughter who loved her:</span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">belted out the high notes / of Indian Love Call at a USO picnic.</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">She learned to love the night shift as a blackout warden</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">and became the woman who I would later blast</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">for not pulling me free from my father’s fierce grip.</span></div>
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From the safe distance of adulthood, Zawinski ventures a hard look into the psyche of a father who, apparently, faced his own demon. In “What About a Fight:”</div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">They say my father loved a fight. Was it his old juvie record</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">trumping determination or hope, his annulled marriage</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">to a bigamist collecting veteran’s checks</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">or layoffs at the mills</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">before benefits kicked in, a monotony of existence?</span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Not a pleasant undertaking, the poem bears witness to working class ennui, malaise and brokenness.</span></div>
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<i style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Landings</i><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"> toggles between personal and world crises. In “Le crayon qui parle” we hear a lament for Paris after the attacks. To place the attack in historical context, we first hear of Picasso’s creation of the Guernica: “An arm raised with a lamp of light.” Fast forward to the current scene:</span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">a wounded city mourning and left to do</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">what it must – to witness, to sing or to pray,</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">to hold vigil, to take up paints or dig hands in clay</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">to run fingers across keys, to put pen to paper</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">to let le crayon parle as dreary fearsome nights</span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></span><span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">begin to fade and chains of pain break and fall</span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">By bringing in a scene where Gertrude Stein tells Picasso to “put down the pen and go home and paint” in the first stanza, the poet engenders empathy not only for the Paris of terrorist attacks, but also the city that survived a Nazi invasion and two world wars.</span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">“Rafts,” mourns the immigrant crisis, juxtaposing a family picnic against refugees floating across a tumultuous sea from Aleppo: “A three-year-old washes up onto the beach, face down on the sand / Limp body leaden in his father’s arms / Water lapping the wounded shore.” When humanity suffers, the earth suffers: a truth we know but can afford to hear again and again.The body may be gone but the spirit lives on. The trope repeatedly acts as a through line in Landings. Life is unforgiving. Senseless violence pervades. People are hurt, injured and die for no reason. Still, we land, an indomitable spirit and will to survive intact.</span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">The final section, “Civics Lessons,” employs the prose poem form to relate a story about the school days that informed the poet’s adult political leanings. In two flash-sized chapters, Zawinski recounts a Civics teacher who punished her for “not putting her hand to her heart to recite the national anthem” but then proceeded to bribe her father for his vote. The aforementioned teacher was later incarcerated. Chapter two brings us a new crisis: Martin Luther King’s assassination:</span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated in a Memphis motel, the cashier barking: “It’s about time someone shut that nigger up.” Outside, business owners scrawled Soul Brother across their boarded-up shops under a sky thick with smoke layered like low flung storm clouds. Police in swat gear with crackling megaphones cleared streets and blocked bridges, while “All You Need Is Love” blasted from speakers propped in an apartment house window. Like so many before and so many after, I signed on, sat in, marched, protested, carried signs believing that raising my voice would make words matter. Civics lesson.</span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Ever the soldier for human rights and blessed with a fighting spirit, this poet possesses a healthy dose of empathy with which she processes the stranger’s pain. Without self-pity or regret Zawinski narrates the events that shaped her into the person and writer she is today. We are grateful that so deleterious a past delivered a lover of beauty and a citizen of the world.</span></div>
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To read some of Andrena's poems published here at Writing the Polish Diaspora, just click on the following links.</div>
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<a href="http://writingpolishdiaspora.blogspot.com/2017/07/on-road-hijacked-by-memory.html">On the Road, Hijacked by Memory </a></div>
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<a href="https://writingpolishdiaspora.blogspot.com/2010/02/something-about-by-andrena-zawinski.html">Something About -- a winged sonnet</a></div>
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<a href="https://writingpolishdiaspora.blogspot.com/2009/08/andrena-zawinski-at-caffe-greco.html">Triptych of Three Pines</a></div>
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John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-12548706551058920242018-08-10T11:46:00.005-07:002018-08-12T10:11:19.633-07:00Circus of Trust by Mark Tardi<img alt="Image result for circus of trust mark tardi" height="200" 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" 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Mark Tardi, one of my favorite Polish American poets, has a new book of poems. If you've been following my blog, you'll know that this is the third time I'm featuring Mark's poems. I wrote about him in <a href="http://writingpolishdiaspora.blogspot.com/2012/06/mark-tardi.html"><b>2012 </b></a> and again in 2013 when his book <b><a href="https://writingpolishdiaspora.blogspot.com/2013/05/airport-music-by-mark-tardi.html">Airport Music</a></b> came out (click on the links here to see those pieces and poems).<br />
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He's got a new book out from the great Dalkey Archive Press called <b>Circus of Trust</b> (available at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Circus-Trust-American-Literature/dp/1943150265/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1533925105&sr=8-1&keywords=mark+tardi&dpID=51lXP9APmfL&preST=_SY344_BO1,204,203,200_QL70_&dpSrc=srch">Amazon</a>). The poems are stronger and more moving than ever.<br />
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Here are a couple:<br />
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<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "gill sans" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>Prologue</b></span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "gill sans" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The roadsides
favor promiscuity, snow</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">clenched to
nights, hoarsely chromium,</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">forming a grin
inside a crack. In sleep</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">They</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">ll pursue you: no bandit lapping the
fence, </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">no slim digit
hovering over the viewshed. I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">’m
</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">waiting for my
legs to catch up with my hand. </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"> I</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">m waiting for that resigned way of
Saturday. </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">An altered
paradise, not epitome or ruminant, </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">a paradise born
inside out, ceramic. It</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s a question of </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">polo or humanity,
how technology is winning our hearts.</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I know my bones
and your hair, yes, how the eye</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">drowns in cold
probability. The entire structure</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">must be subtracted
from harm</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s way. Folded</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Among the
constellations, ghost flat.</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">You</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">re right when you say the day
continues</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">to torment me. I
don</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">t know whether to
shit or go </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">blind, if sin were
only a matter of physics.</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That chalk village
cut by amber nets, not an answer,</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">not a question.
All tenses and inflections, bloodless, </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">buried in lead
regardless of appetite.</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">I’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">m glad there are no rules, just the extent to which</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">we can describe
what is lean or not lean. The tumult</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">and pulse, the
interior light of things, from which</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"> Most of us would
shrink.</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "arial unicode ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<i><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "gill sans" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>from</b></span></i><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "gill sans" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b> Attribution Error </b> </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "gill sans" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">Sometimes you have to start with a series of
misunderstandings</span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">brief stain to dark clarity</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">a jab, a simple burst of air</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">toward the invisible middle</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">like tripping between the pigeons and the cats</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">like demolished logic</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">because it</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">s always winter in Chicago</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">it’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">ll be dark in forty-five minutes</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">you</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">re here to enjoy
the contradictions</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">the continuous and familiar fact</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">like how economists have predicted seven of </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">the last three downturns</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">like trading a claw hammer for a kiss</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">For the oldest cinema in the world, for its secrets</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">whatever variable distances, itinerant longings</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">more guano for my artifacting</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
________________________</div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There are no harmless motives, thinking </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">detached from all consequence, </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">it was guttered and channeled and sluices</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">like a gnarled moccasin or</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">some squat ungainly bird</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
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<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">the ligaments could have been flypaper revolving in
slow spirals</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
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<div class="Body">
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<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Gone are quinsy, glanders, and farcy</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">menstrual blood prettied with rosewater</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">________________________</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">You don</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif;">t have to step on
a body to carry</span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">death on your shoes, gesticulant and aimless, </span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">each day a relentless emptying out</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">the whorl expanding in itself</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">as if a tickle of electricity in mute chorus</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">as if left trembling with success</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">a
skin of persuasion and habit, weather-worn</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">bound
to a different set of restrictions</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">folding again into the murk beyond</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="Body">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"> between a
gulf and a toilet</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "palatino" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: Palatino; mso-fareast-font-family: Palatino;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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____________<br />
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<div class="gmail_quote">
<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">
<div style="word-wrap: break-word;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Mark Tardi is originally from Chicago and he earned his MFA from Brown University. His publications include the books </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: italic;">The Circus of Trust </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">(just out from Dalkey Archive Press), </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: italic;">Airport music</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">, and </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: italic;">Euclid Shudders</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">. He guest-edited an issue of the literary journal </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: italic;">Aufgabe</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> devoted to contemporary Polish poetry and poetics and has translated poetry from the Polish by Kacper Bartczak, Miron Białoszewski, Monika Mosiewicz, and Przemysław Owczarek. A former Fulbright scholar, he lives with his family in a village in central Poland and is on faculty at the University of Łódź.</span></div>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
<br />John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-11243658612547552842018-07-16T11:50:00.000-07:002018-07-16T11:50:30.082-07:00Polish MushroomsPolish Mushrooms<br />
<br />
I remember my mom once opening a plastic bag with dried mushrooms that came all the way from Poland. She put them in a broth, and while it was heating she talked about how Polish mushrooms were like no other food on earth.<br />
<br />
I was a kid, maybe 7 years old, and I expected them to taste like the greatest chocolate cake in the world.<br />
<br />
You can imagine I was disappointed.<br />
<br />
But when my mother finally poured the mushrooms and broth into our bowls, she smiled first and then she started to cry.<br />
<br />
_____________<br />
<br />
Years later, when she was in her 70s and I was in my 40s, she told me about what her home in Poland was like before the war, the woods around the house, and the things she loved about those woods.<br />
<br />
I wrote a poem about it.<br />
<br />
Like any poem, it doesn't capture the truth of what she remembers, but now that my mom is gone, it's all I have.<br />
<br />
My Mother Before the War<br />
<br />
She loved picking mushrooms in the spring<br />
and even when she was little she could tell<br />
the ones that were safe from the ones that weren’t.<br />
<br />
She loved climbing the tall white birch trees<br />
in the summer when her chores in the garden<br />
and the kitchen were done. She loved to ride<br />
her pet pig Caroline in the woods too<br />
or sit with her and watch the leaves fall<br />
in the autumn. She felt that Caroline<br />
was smarter than her brothers Wladyu and Jan,<br />
but not as smart as Genja, her sister<br />
who was married and had a beautiful baby girl.<br />
<br />
My mother also loved to sing.<br />
There was a song about a chimney sweep<br />
that she would sing over and over;<br />
and when her father heard it, he sometimes<br />
laughed and said, “Tekla, you’re going to grow up<br />
to marry a chimney sweep, and your cheeks<br />
will always be dusty from his dusty kisses.”<br />
But she didn’t care if he teased her so.<br />
<br />
She loved that song and another one,<br />
about a deep well. She loved to sing<br />
about the young girl who stood by the well<br />
waiting for her lover, a young soldier,<br />
to come back from the wars far away.<br />
<br />
She had never had a boy friend, and her mom<br />
said she was too young to think of boys,<br />
but Tekla didn’t care. She loved the song<br />
and imagined she was the girl waiting<br />
for the soldier to come back from the war.John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-16292388232139496282017-11-11T07:52:00.002-08:002018-08-06T12:24:27.511-07:00And So On and So Forth -- by Vladimir Konieczny <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://napoleon95.ipower.com/Images.NAP/Konieczny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="205" src="https://napoleon95.ipower.com/Images.NAP/Konieczny.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Vladimir Knoieczny, the Polish-Canadian author of <i>Struggling for Perfection: The Story of Glenn Gould</i> and <i>Glenn Gould: A Musical Force,</i> has allowed me to post his moving memoir about his relationship to his father, a Polish soldier who survived the war and came to Canada as a Displaced Person. </div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>“And So On and So Forth”
by Vladimir Konieczny<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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(Excerpted from<b><i> Nobody’s Father</i>
[TouchWood Editions, 2008] edited by Bruce Gillespie and Lynne Van Luven)<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<i>“But you would have
made such a good father,” she said.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>“Well, yes and no,”
I replied.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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My first-and-only-born died
at the age of 52. His name was Andrezj, and in truth, he was my father, but our
roles often felt reversed. The official cause of death was lung cancer, but if
illness can serve as metaphor, then the crab that pinched his lungs was merely
the symptom of a soul long drained of vitality by alcohol. I spied him many
times as his lips clutched a bottle of wine as if it were a lifebuoy, while his
Adam’s apple bobbed like a fisherman’s float with every swallow. When he jerked
the bottle from his mouth, a plop echoed throughout the basement, followed by a
death-rattle sigh grumbling deep in his barrel chest. He always screwed the cap
back on with two or three quick precise flicks of his thumb and middle finger
before secreting it away in one or another of his hiding places. He denied
doing this, but I knew better, and for months after his death, I kept finding
empty wine bottles in the house and the backyard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Andrzej spoke five
languages, played half a dozen instruments, danced like an Argentinean
tango-meister, sang like a Venetian gondolier, sketched viciously funny
caricatures, played poker with panache, entertained guests with stories all
told in appropriate accents, slaved six days a week in a shoe factory, and
still took the time to drink himself into an early grave. He was a model of
decorum and industry by day, an incoherent drunk by night. Some days he was
stalwart and brave; others, he was weak and whiny. Funny when sober, he could
be verbally violent when drunk. Fortunately, for he was a strong man, Andrzej
was unfailingly soft with his hands. I loved him one minute and loathed him the
next.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The eldest in a family
of three brothers and two sisters, Andrzej won a scholarship to university;
instead, he went to work and later enlisted in the Polish army, determined to
rout the Nazis. By war’s end, his entire family had been slaughtered, and he
found himself stationed near a Displaced Persons camp in Germany. There he met
Zenobia, a Belarus woman whose family had also been slaughtered, but who was
lucky enough to survive as slave labour on a farm in Germany after she was
first abused, to use the current euphemism. I’d like to say they fell in love,
but love seems like such a luxury in a DP camp. Loneliness and humiliation,
resin and catalyst, constituted the epoxy that bonded them to each other; once
it had cured, they couldn’t pry themselves apart, even though they should have.
I was born in that camp in Germany. And there I learned my first lessons about
the fickleness of authority.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After the war the
Canadian government, in a fit of generosity, liberalized its immigration laws
and thousands of refugees came here. Andrzej felt he had little choice. He knew
his country had been betrayed yet again, for the Allies, unwilling to risk yet
another conflagration, had made their pact with a psychopath. Millions who only
a minute earlier had been freed from one monster now found themselves held
captive by yet another idiot savant whose single gift was for killing. Those
who could get out, did. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Even though he was
grateful for the opportunity to come to Canada, Andrzej made a tragic mistake
in emigrating, because some temperaments, like certain plants, wither when
transplanted in foreign soil. He arrived first with only the proverbial clothes
on his back. Actually, he was wearing shorts when he disembarked in Halifax.
Zenobia and I remained in the refugee camp—waiting. To fulfill his contractual
obligations, he toiled for one year on a farm in southern Ontario before
sending for my mother and me. I was four. All I had known until then was the
camp. Now, the puppy had been released from its cage and was free to roam the
wide-open spaces of the Ontario countryside. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Andrzej and Zenobia
had their eyes on the future: mine. My glorious tomorrow was their bulwark
against the ignorance and bigotry of Canada in the 1950s and ’60s. Zenobia’s
roots took firm hold here, while Andrezj’s shrivelled. He grew addicted to
drink; my mother to me. I was the little guy with the smart mouth who could
make both parents laugh even in the heat of an argument, which happened daily.
I became the buffer between two warring strangers, a Belarus and a Pole, whose
only common bond besides their recent history of misery was me. And so I
absorbed the dynamics of family interaction. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Like so many
immigrants, my parents held jobs that were beneath their abilities and
education. Still, they were grateful to have them. Zenobia traded slavery on a
labour farm for servitude in a shoe factory. She even sewed moccasins at night
for something like a penny per slipper. Later, she toiled for the Toronto
school board as an aide in a kindergarten, a job that was close to her original
dream to be a teacher, but again the pay was a pittance. My father worked in a
tannery, where his skin soaked up dyes, and later in a shoe factory, where he
inhaled glues all day long. Yet, no matter how drunk he got at night, he never
missed a day of work. Zenobia rose first to make breakfast; by 7:00 am they
were both gone, leaving me on my own to get ready for school—or not. I watched
them both and picked up a few pointers about labour and economics, and
especially the law of diminishing returns. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At some point in my
teens, two words began to echo in my mind: “if” and “only.” Together, they form
the most hollow phrase in English, a cavern in which lurk lost illusions,
actions regretted, chances never taken. Most of all, the phrase reverberates
with the hopeless wish that an idealized future would magically be the present
and that the past were somehow different. If only Andrzej and Zenobia had been
born later. If only Hitler had not, or Churchill had, or Stalin had not. If
only this, if only that. A see-saw of disappointment and despair. But these
were my if onlys; Andrzej’s simply rasped in his heart. He never gave them
voice, at least not to me. He expressed only extremes: joy one day, anger the
next. And for years, I caromed from one to the other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In fact, my father’s
favourite expression was “and so on and so forth.” Whenever anyone asked about
the war, for example, he would smile and take a thoughtful puff on his
unfiltered Export A, “Oh, of course some difficult days, you see. Very
difficult, you know, and so on and so forth.” Then he’d tell a joke or engage
in debate about religion, politics, music, or the Toronto Maple Leafs versus
the Montreal Canadiens, his charm and wit drawing friends into arguments that
would shift terrain with a slippery word or two from his smiling lips. Like
everyone else, I, his son, had to fashion Andrzej’s history from the motes of memory
that occasionally floated into his conversations: a name here, a place there, a
date, a farewell, a snippet of a song, a sketch of someone’s face, a story
about a long-dead friend, or a village scene never to be repeated here. To this
day, much of his life remains a mystery to me. Still, to his credit, he never
dined out on his wartime experiences, and neither did Zenobia. I sat at his
knee and studied human exchange. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He was my hero and
nemesis rolled into one. No question of mine was too difficult for him to
answer. He would sing arias or pop songs, conduct a symphony blasting on the
Motorola radio and invite me to join in. He showed me how to bait a hook, cast
a line, bluff at poker and milk a musical phrase. I read the newspaper over his
shoulder and answered his questions. He taught me to read between the lines and
to watch people’s eyes, faces and hands to understand what they really meant.
He impressed my buddies and charmed my girlfriends. He bragged about me to his
friends, but only rarely complimented me to my face. Even then, he praised me
when I had done nothing to deserve it and ignored me when I had actually
achieved something. I lost count of the number of times he embarrassed me when
he was drunk, but I also treasured every fishing trip, music lesson, card game
and discussion we had when he was sober. Eventually, like a dragonfly on a
clothesline, I learned to stay on constant alert. After a while, I could gauge
his mood and read his gestures accurately enough to make the necessary transpositions
from one key to another by myself. But on occasion, like every alcoholic’s
child, I wanted to ask him which he loved more, the bottle or me. But then you
might as well ask which wing a hummingbird favours. And so I learned not to
confuse need with love. <o:p></o:p></div>
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From about the age of
eight, I worked to support my father. My job was simple but demanding. When he
drank, I became the man of the house. This job was assigned by my mother, and
there was no arguing. Even back then she already sensed that her son was like a
hound on a porch, turning around and around, sniffing the air in search of that
inviting blend of texture and scent which signals a safe place to rest or hide.
She wanted to teach me self-discipline, but as Andrzej once presciently said,
“Just leave him alone. It’s too late.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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My manly tasks were
straightforward. I retrieved smouldering cigarette butts from his ashtrays and
doused them in the kitchen sink. I made sure the stove was off after he went to
bed, because he liked to light his cigarettes on the burner. I checked the
doors and so on and so forth. As I grew older and he weaker, I on occasion
followed him home from one or another of his favourite pubs. Like an
apprenticing undercover cop, I shadowed my father from one side of the street
while he walked up the other with those light, precise footsteps unique to the
very drunk. Whistling or belting out a tune, he would pass rows of grim brick
houses, his fedora neatly cocked, its front pinched just so, and his hands held
straight by his sides as though he were on parade. Sometimes, I helped him to
bed and watched as he fell asleep, drunk on wine and exhausted from work. I
joked about these nights with friends who shared similar adventures. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My mother was a
courageous woman who also feared the night at noon. She rarely spoke of the war
years, the physical and mental abuse, the simple unfairness of it all, but her
experience had inked her melancholy soul an even darker sepia, which no amount of
sunlight could bleach. She had claimed to be Polish to ensure that she could
emigrate. She also subtracted four years from her age in the hope that she
would be more appealing as an immigrant if she were younger, a minor sleight of
hand that postponed her retirement by an equal length of time. These deceptions
were probably unnecessary, but in those days, who could be certain they
weren’t? And so for the rest of her life, she not only suppressed her true
identity, but also worried that her secret would be discovered. Yet, despite
her fluttering misgivings, Zenobia refused to suffer fools and never thought of
herself as a victim, even though she believed the other shoe would inevitably
drop, and I had better be prepared for it. She loved me unconditionally, and
that only heightened her fears for her son. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Zenobia worked harder
than anyone I’ve ever known. She also managed the household. Every Friday, she
would open her and my father’s brown pay packets and allocate money with the
precision of a purchasing agent: mortgage, hydro and food, in that order. If
anything was left over, it went into savings. This was my lesson in financial
planning and long-term investment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Then, suddenly, as
these things always happen, my father became ill. He discussed it with the
usual “and so ons and so forths.” Perhaps during the hour of the wolf, he
probed death’s sacred side and fondled the dignified beauty of parting, but
I’ll never know, for a short while later he died. I was not yet 21, cockier
than a year-old Irish terrier, and completely oblivious to what Andrzej’s
passing would eventually come to mean. The last words I heard him speak were,
“This is my son.” These he said to the duty nurse who was administering
painkillers. At the time, I had no idea how right he was, for by then I was
already both particle and wave: a hard, bitter kernel of moral certitude one
minute, an undulating non-localized wave of doubt and anxiety the next; a model
of confidence, ambition and promise one day; a bundle of sloth, self-indulgence
and anger the next. One week I wanted marriage and children; the next, I
fantasized about emulating Jack Kerouac. One minute I felt compassion for all
of humanity; the next I sneered at people’s weakness. One day I felt light with
joy; the next I could have squashed butterflies. I despised authority, but
argued fervently in favour of it. I vacillated between being a monk and being
famous, for what I didn’t know, something, anything. If not this, then surely
that. Just notice me, please and thank you. That was my motto for a long time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One day a few years
after Andrzej died, my new girlfriend announ-ced that she was pregnant. She
also hinted it might be her ex-boyfriend’s. Timelines were loose in the early
1970s. I tried to convince her that I didn’t care if it was his or mine. “We’ll
get married and everything will be fine,” I said. I’m sure I added an “I love
you” for good measure. I was determined to do my duty. She listened and nodded,
but her sloe eyes suggested an ancient understanding. For the next few days, I
talked to myself in the mirror. “Asshole. Fool. Idiot. How could you do this?
Your life is ruined.” Then, I would imagine myself strutting down the street
with my baby, a proud father determined not to make the same mistakes his
parents had. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A week or so later,
she called to tell me that she intended to have an abortion. I was outraged.
“It’s wrong!” I yelled. “It’s murder. You can’t do it!” She had the presence of
mind to hang up. When she called back a few days later and told me she had gone
through with it, a huge wave of gratitude and relief made my knees tremble.
Shortly afterwards, we split up. Only years later could I admit that I had been
indignant not because of the abortion, for even back then I had no
philosophical objections to abortion, but because I wasn’t the one who got to
make the decision. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There followed years
of education, more than a few menial jobs, and marriage. I played with my
friends’ children, made cooing noises, and tickled their chins. While I held
them, I longed for one or two of my own. One girl, now a lovely young woman,
especially captured my heart and made me wish that I had been her father. But
inevitably when I put others’ children down, I was glad I didn’t have any. I
had my reasons, and they were sufficient to keep me childless. What were they?
Legion. By this time, for example, I had taught in secondary school for several
years, and had experienced, although admittedly second-hand, the results of
broken homes, the fallout from bitter divorces and the battles waged by parents
who used their children as missiles. This could happen to me, I reasoned. Why
take a chance? I’m happy to be married. But kids? I’ll pass. Then again maybe I
should? And that sly inner voice would shift poles, and I would yet again spend
an hour or two fingering my regrets. In short, Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays,
I wanted a family, but not on the rest of the days. I had also learned that to
love a child is easy, but to be consistent as a parent is hard, and for some
us, impossible. <o:p></o:p></div>
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More years passed.
Much to my horror, I became middle-aged, the time in life when there’s still
some light left at the end of the tunnel, but you now realize it’s
battery-powered. My mother finally gave up hope she would ever have
grandchildren. Then, like my father, she died a horrible and unfair death. A
few years later there was, for what seemed like only a fraction of a minute, a
second chance for a child, but then came some difficult days, yes, very
difficult, you see, and so on and so forth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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_______________</div>
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<o:p> </o:p> </div>
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Vladimir Konieczny was
born in a refugee camp in Germany in 1946 and emigrated in 1950 to join his
father in Canada. A former teacher of English and music for the Vancouver
School Board, he now works as a freelance writer and an instructor in Simon
Fraser University’s Writing and Publishing Program. He is the author of two
books: <i>Struggling for Perfection: The Story of Glenn Gould</i>, which was
nominated for the Red Cedar Book Award, and <i>Glenn Gould: A Musical Force</i>.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Nobodys-Father-Life-Without-Kids/dp/1894898745"><i> Nobody's Father</i> is available from Amazon.</a></span></div>
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John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-27217033443024625872017-09-07T11:00:00.002-07:002017-09-08T11:16:59.606-07:00Reversing the River by Leslie Pietrzyk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://cdn-images-1.medium.com/max/1200/1*qJ5RZPdLlCfz4X_xlf61XQ@2x.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://cdn-images-1.medium.com/max/1200/1*qJ5RZPdLlCfz4X_xlf61XQ@2x.png" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">If you haven’t read
the fiction of Leslie Pietryzk, you really should. She’s one of my favorite Polish-American writers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">She’s the
award-winning author of <b>Pears on a
Willow Tree</b> and <b>A Year and a Day</b>,
two great novels. Her fiction has been
published in the some of the greatest American literary journals, and her recent book
<b>This Angel on My Chest </b>was chosen by
the <b>Kirkus Review</b> as one of the best
collections of short stories this year<b>.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her most recent novel <b>Reversing the River</b> is currently being
serialized in Medium, an internet site that can be accessed online or through
the Great Jones Street literary app (available through the iTunes store). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Here’s a brief note
that Leslie sent me describing <b>Reversing the River</b>:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">REVERSING THE RIVER, a
historical novel, is set on one day in Chicago at the turn of the (previous)
century, when the citizens of Chicago completed their massive engineering
project to literally reverse the flow of the Chicago River to ensure safe
drinking water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">We meet Jozef, a
Polish immigrant who is struggling to care for his newborn son and understand
his complex relationship with love and family, and Lucy, an affluent young
woman who is learning the secrets behind her recent, hasty marriage. How will
the course of their lives be reversed on this momentous day?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">You can start reading the serialization when you join Medium. Here's a link to it, and there's info there about joining. Just click<a href="https://medium.com/s/reversing-the-river"> here: </a></span><a href="https://medium.com/s/reversing-the-river"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> </span>https://medium.com/s/<wbr></wbr>reversing-the-river</a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">And now here’s the first
chapter:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter
One: THE CHICAGO BROTHER<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Sitting
on the cold stoop as snow flurried around him, Jozef felt as useless as a third
boot. Upstairs, his wife was huddled deep in Ludwika’s bed, in the front room
where the window was. When any of them were sick, that’s where they lay to get
better or to die: little Janka with the fever was the last one, and she had
passed on after a long, terrible week; mass was being said at St. Casimir’s in
two Sundays. Now his wife, Krystyna—not sick, but with a baby that had been
coming for too many hours, so it was her turn in Ludwika’s bed, her turn to lie
in the front room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
had resisted, wanting her to stay in the back bedroom; yes, it was on the
airshaft, dark and dank, crowded with the bedding for the little girls, but
wasn’t it better for Krystyna to be in a place she knew—the faded wallpaper
with the roses, the cracks in the ceiling zigzagging like summer
lightning?—“she’ll be fine back here,” he had said, but the women ignored him,
lifting Krystyna, pulling her, prodding her into the front, into the bed where
people died. How Ludwika could sleep with those ghosts, but she did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Go,”
they told him. “We’ll take care of her.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “But…”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Go,”
and he was nudged out the front door, and one of them even stood there, arms
folded like a sentry, watching him clump down the four flights of stairs to be
sure he was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
walked to the saloon on the corner, had a beer and a pickle, watched the card
game, complained about the ward boss, didn’t mention the baby. No one sent for
him. At midnight, he walked the two blocks back, thinking of nothing except the
sound of his footsteps, the flickers of light in the streetlamps and how
different their dance was from the way flames twisted off handmade candles on
the table in Poland. That smell of sputtering wax, a single drip sliding
inexorably downward. Thoughts he wouldn’t usually allow in his mind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Upstairs,
the women wouldn’t stop moving: pouring water from a pitcher, soaking rags,
fanning Krystyna’s damp face, stroking back her heavy hair, rubbing her wrists.
There was a dark, indescribable odor seeping throughout the rooms, and he
sensed something lingering, waiting to settle in: he couldn’t describe what he
smelled, or he didn’t want to, but it was as if the air had turned itself
inside out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
couldn’t sleep: the children were restless and whimpering, the men snoring, the
air impossible to breathe. There was a hush, but no silence, only anxiety and
that odor. Not stench, but worse. The blanket on, the blanket off. On his side,
on his back. Two punches to the pillow, three more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Her
cries—<i>Matka!—</i>begging for her mother. <i>Matka!</i> Strong, then weaker.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
tiptoed around the children, tumbled like a nest of mice in their pallets, and
on into the first bedroom, making his way around the crooked line of sleeping
men—lodgers, down-on-their-luck cousins, someone’s uncle—then through the dim
kitchen to stand in the doorway to the front room. Through the flat’s only
window on the opposite wall, Jozef saw a swirl of new snow through the window
and felt an odd moment of panic: so many flakes…too many, too much, more flakes
than could be contained in this one night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Crazy
thoughts. He shook his head. Just snow, same as the snow in Poland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Ludwika
stood over Krystyna in the yellow lamplight; the others were tucked into the
dark, edged in with the shadows. “It will be fine,” Ludwika murmured in Polish.
“God will take care. You’ll see. Trust God.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Trust
God,” one of the others echoed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Of
course,” Jozef said. “Trust God.” He didn’t; he couldn’t. He understood God had
stopped listening to him long ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Go,”
Ludwika said. “You won’t help here. Nothing to do but wait.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
stood in the doorway for a moment. The doctor, he thought, but it was useless.
There was no doctor who would come here. The money. What he had must go for
rent, with Ludwika already behind. Ludwika’s eyes did not waver from his, as if
she drew his gaze directly to her and held onto it for a reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I
have faith enough for both of us,” Ludwika said. Janka had been her favorite
daughter, named for a sister back in Poland. In the end, Janka’s skin had
crackled like paper. In the end, two flies had sailed freely along the ceiling,
buzzing, not landing, and then another, another. Ludwika’s sobs, choked
too-tight, an animal’s cry. That smell. That was how he knew it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Trust
God,” someone murmured, and Jozef turned and left before he would have to hear
the words again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> There
was nowhere to go, but because he had to go, he grabbed his coat and trudged
down the stairs to sit on the stoop, brushing aside a light layer of snow with
one hand, pulling his cap down hard over his head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Krystyna
was seventeen and more delicate than she should be, and of course he shouldn’t
have married someone so delicate, but her shy, crooked smile had softened his
heart, her small hands that drew pictures in the air as she spoke, how she bit
her bottom lip when she was embarrassed, how her cheeks turned pink whenever he
looked too long at her. Someone had to take care of her. Like the way each
spring he saw the first ducklings on the pond, their clumsy paddling, unable to
keep a straight path through the water, and he would chase off the hungry
herons and hawks. That didn’t stop him from shooting those same ducks come
summer, bringing them home for dinner. In the end, a man had to be practical.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Coming
to Chicago had been practical. Coming to work hard and earn money, coming to
avoid being conscripted into the czar’s army…practical, and practical. A man
would go far, assessing a situation and understanding the need to choose the
practical course.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Jozef
yanked his cap down harder, so the brim almost covered his eyes. Marrying
Krystyna, who was the first girl he had met in America, had not been practical.
What had been his father’s last words to him, almost two years ago before he
left for America: “Don’t believe in love. Don’t let yourself think you’re in
love.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Jozef
had met his father’s steady gaze, had shaken his head no. “I won’t.” Why would
he? The girls in the village were dazzling, but Jozef knew the deadening
endlessness that followed: the worrisome cycle of either too much weather or
not enough ravaging the fields; taxes always due; stubborn, unyielding land;
hunger’s bite; the hollow words of the priest; exhausted silence; the children
left to trudge the same path, and then their children, too. No chance of
escape. For proof, he could look at his father and his third wife; Jozef’s own
mother had died when he was a baby, and the wife his father had married next
died after about ten years. Now, this new wife, once filled with generous smiles
and a quick, pretty laugh, was two years into the marriage—with the fussy baby
and another coming along—and she might as well be any wizened old lady grubbing
with the chickens, her smiles now shriveled. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “You
say this,” his father had said. “But—”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “No
buts,” Jozef said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> His
father said, “I think I know some things.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Of
course, Father,” Jozef said. “But not this. I’ll follow your advice.” He shoved
his hands in his pockets, nodded his head for emphasis. <i>I’m not you,</i> he thought, though he couldn’t imagine his father in
love, whatever that meant. His father, too, was a practical man, and to find a
wife to handle the house and children and chores was scarcely a matter of
“love,” not with seven little ones running about. So that was one thing Jozef,
the oldest, had done: gotten himself out from underfoot and come to America.
Where had his father found money for the passage? He didn’t ask. Would he see
any of them again? Something else he didn’t ask. When he boarded the ship, he
hung over the rail and looked back, wanting to wave, but his father had already
melted through the crowd. Jozef waved anyway, as if his father were still
standing there to see him. And so he came to America.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> And,
foolishly, had not fallen in love, but had come as close as one could while
not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
huffed his breath into his gloveless hands to keep them warm. He stood on the
step and stamped his feet several times, then sat down again. The church would
be open most likely, but he’d choose freezing to death first.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Back
on that summer afternoon when he had arrived in Chicago, the churn of people at
the train platform was like the sea, heaving and terrifying, overwhelming and
endless. Trunks swinging, men pushing, women and children linked arm in arm,
strung five and six across, fighting their way in directions opposite everyone
else, elegant men and women coming off the fancy Pullmans. Horses and wagons
plowing through the crowds, the roads rutted and confusing. Languages spinning
like loose marbles and only occasionally a word that sounded familiar, a word
that was <i>home</i>. The sun a mallet
pounding the breezeless air. Jozef—like the others, wearing three layers of
clothing, money pinned to the inside of his waistband—stood in the midst of
that mess, still as a rock in a stream, letting it flow around him as he
breathed in lungfuls of the black packinghouse stench of blood and
guts—breathed it all in: pushing and shoving and jostling, the shifting swells
of panic, a shout of, “Brother!” and even with the clench of terror knotting
his stomach and throat—even with that, he relished the sensation of being first
somehow, even amidst all these others. He, Jozef Nowak, was somewhere no one
else had been; he was first. Yes, his father’s plan was to send over others
when Jozef sent enough money—brothers, sisters, uncles, cousins. But being
first was perhaps the grandest thing he could expect to happen in his life: his
two feet on soil where no member of his family had been. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Where
he had come from, there was a feeling of tiredness in the same meal of potatoes
and bread night after night. Or his father’s shirt that would be made over for
him, and then made over for the baby, then made over into rags, so that the
same scrap of cloth existed for years—becoming the landscape, same as any tall
tree or immoveable hill. Something that had always been there. “You think too
much,” his father would say. <i>You don’t
think enough,</i> but Jozef would not dare speak the words. Many words there
remained unspoken, so that what was said was like that piece of fabric: cycled round,
endlessly reused until bleached of all meaning, until limp. Nothing stayed new.
The new brothers and sisters grew to look like the brothers and sisters he
already had. The pretty girls in the village became their hunched, sour
mothers. The sun, the night, the hot, the cold, and all of it around again.
Everything got ground down into dust. That was the future: becoming the dust
under someone else’s boots. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> But
here, America, Chicago, was fresh, was new. The land hadn’t been used up; the
land had barely been touched. There was so much of it, endless. Like the sky.
And here he stood exactly in the middle of it all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Then
she knocked into him, shoved by someone else who kept moving, a burly man with
hamfists swinging at his sides, his back as wide as a stable. Jozef righted
her, trying not to notice the sensation of his hand on her sleeve, the warmth
of her body radiating into his. He folded his arms across his chest, tried to
focus his eyes only on the scrap of torn paper pinned to her shoulder: <i>Chicago. </i>One word he recognized.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Sorry,”
she mumbled in Polish. “Excuse me, please.” Her voice was shy but when she
looked at him, there was something lively in her blue eyes, as if she knew what
it was to be always thinking thoughts that the others told her to forget. She
smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my brother,” she said. “He told me to wait, but
how can anyone stand still in this crowd?” Then she slid her eyes away from his
face, as if surprised she had said so much to a stranger, and the smile was
gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
wanted it back. It had been a long time since someone had looked at him with
such kindness. So Jozef spoke quickly, “We can find him. What does he look
like? Like you?” This was the excuse to study her face: those far-apart blue
eyes; firm, high cheekbones, like stone; a sweep of wheat-colored hair peeking
from her dark shawl; her skin unlined, unfurrowed, looking soft and cool,
despite the hot day, despite the layers of clothes she wore and the thick coat.
It would be a relief to rest a hand on her cheek. She wasn’t pretty, but
because she was the first person who had spoken specifically to him in Chicago,
he wanted to remember her, so he stared harder, memorizing her features. Sun
freckles across her nose. Flat, brown eyebrows. A tinge of pink across both
cheeks, deepening now into a steady flush, and she ducked her head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “I
scarcely know what he looks like,” she said. “He’s been away for three years,
so none of us have seen him. Indeed, I barely recognized him when he first
approached, because he was so much taller than I’d seen him last, and dressed
like a city man with such a fine hat. He’s gotten on well here, but no one
should be surprised because he was always a good worker, and sweet, too. I’d
been waiting for him; I arrived in the morning, and he was late, or I think
maybe he didn’t know me either. When he left Poland I was a girl, only twelve
or thirteen. Following him around the fields too much, ‘his little shadow,’ he
teased.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Her
sudden chatter confused him, as if she wasn’t the shy girl he’d painted in his
mind, but someone else entirely, someone to be wary of. Hearing so many words
was like a thirsty man drowning in too much water. But then she bit her bottom
lip hard, and shook her head, as she spoke, “It’s such a world isn’t it, where
the ones you love go halfway around it?” and he understood that all this talk
was there to cover her fear, just as he slipped into silence to cover his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
glanced about, then asked, “Where’s your trunk?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “He
took it,” she said. “Strong as ever, it was nothing for him to sling it on his
back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Then
he won’t be far from here,” he said. “Weighted by a trunk.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> She
looked around, lifted her arms in the air in a fast shrug, and there was that
smile again. “It seems I’ve been waiting quite a long time since I saw him,”
she said. “He went to find a wagon and said he’d come back for me. Three years
we’ve waited, so I would say more waiting is nothing. But you. You must be
meeting someone. On your way somewhere?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Jozef
shook his head. “I’m the oldest. I’m first in my family to come to America.” To
speak the words sounded impossibly grand; how dare he feel so important? His
face turned hot. She made him say the things that should stay locked inside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> But
she reached out and set one hand on his arm, squeezed gently. “My brother, too.
Such a lonely place, being first.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> Again,
he felt the heat of her touch through his sleeve, burning into his skin, into
his bones. But he shifted so that her hand slipped aside. “There are others
from my village,” he said. He had memorized the addresses he’d been given by
his father who had gotten them from the priest. At night, trapped in the tight
darkness of the rocking ship, while others snored or puked or prayed, he had
recited the strange words over and over, imagining himself understanding the
odd English someday, imagining what these Chicago streets might look like, what
the words might mean and how one day they would jump off the piece of paper and
into this new life that was his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “He
has others, too,” she said. “From the village and two cousins. Now me. But to
be the only one, first…. Nothing is like family, like blood. Yet I’ll never
understand the things he’s known here, what one has to…swallow to get by. It’s
a distant place he came to, not America, not Chicago, but a place farther than
that. You can’t return from here, not when you’re first…you’ll….” She trailed
off. “I’m sorry. I should find him.” But she didn’t move.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> To
hear her talk, this journey was all so spectacular. But she had been on the
stinking boat as he had, packed in like chickens to a coop—no, worse; chickens
treated so badly wouldn’t lay—the dry bread, the never-enough water, the air
breathed out a thousand times already. Now this: swarms of people here after
the same jobs; what city contained enough jobs for this multitude? All after
the same rooms to rent, the same bit of space to stand on the sidewalk. Coming
here, being first, was only being practical. Someone had to, and as the oldest,
it had to be him. If anything terrible happened to his father, there would be
the children left behind, beggars or worse. He immediately shook the image
clear, the little ones starving. He was here, and now no one would starve. It
was what a man did—what her brother did, no doubt. What was expected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> But
she was just a woman, a girl really. What would she know of “practical”? If she
walked away, he would feel more alone than ever, so he said, “And now you’ve
come, too, joining your brother.” He had wanted to sound friendly, but she
simply shrugged, as if she barely heard him, and he had a frantic tumbling
inside fearing she might turn to leave and be swallowed up by Chicago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “We planned it would be my brother Andrzej
coming here, but he’s not right in the head now,” she said. “He sits all day in
the corner of the barn, winding straw around his thumbs. So it was me. I can
work just as hard here, I would guess.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> He
shielded his eyes from the sun with one hand. “Your other brother. The Chicago
brother. What’s his name? I can call for him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Jozef,”
she said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-pagination: none;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Why,
that’s my name, too!” he said, startled. Though why would this be so
remarkable; the name was common enough. Whatever she said seemed unsettling,
yet he wasn’t willing to see her go. He had to help her find her brother at
least. So he shouted, “Jozef.” The crowd was large, gobbling up the sound, and
he felt uneasy at the way it was his own name that seemed to disappear. He
called louder, and though several men turned to glance at them, no one
responded beyond a prolonged, curious stare. He jumped on top of his own trunk,
raising himself above everyone’s shoulders, and bellowed, “JOZEF!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">____________</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The rest of the first chapter and the other chapters can be found at Medium.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Just click <b><a href="https://medium.com/s/reversing-the-river">HERE</a></b>.</span></div>
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John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-57613934868961720662017-08-17T10:48:00.005-07:002017-08-17T14:59:31.665-07:00The Enemy by Elisabeth Murawski<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIt_ByeDPvFLTmaRkwnyG2QbBnye-iSd0H1ZX-RnW2RnFtQ7EcfjSCPRPhNDTJZVHd7V1jR0E20co1oOIyMJ-iZlE4UnZZJzxjhhSfbUq-uW5_00d5WqH3VSU8ypVtleJGfU4kqU3U36um/s1600/2.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIt_ByeDPvFLTmaRkwnyG2QbBnye-iSd0H1ZX-RnW2RnFtQ7EcfjSCPRPhNDTJZVHd7V1jR0E20co1oOIyMJ-iZlE4UnZZJzxjhhSfbUq-uW5_00d5WqH3VSU8ypVtleJGfU4kqU3U36um/s1600/2.2.jpg" /></a></div>
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Elisabeth Murawski has allowed me to republish her poem "The Enemy" here at <i>Writing the Polish Diaspora</i>. The poem originally appeared in <i>The Hudson Review</i>.<br />
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Ms. Murawski is the author of <i>Zorba’s
Daughter,</i> which received the May Swenson Poetry Award, <i>Moon and Mercury</i>, and two chapbooks. Her poems have appeared in <i>The Yale Review,
FIELD, The Alaska Quarterly Review, The Hudson Review, et al. </i>A native of
Chicago, she currently resides in Alexandria, VA.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The title poem from <i>Zorba's Daughter </i>was reprinted here. To read it, just click <a href="http://writingpolishdiaspora.blogspot.com/2010/04/murawski-wins-may-swenson-prize.html">here</a>.</div>
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<b>The Enemy<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Pogo warned, brave as an
astronaut, the enemy’s <o:p></o:p></div>
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us. Promptly, we forgot the
enemy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Swayed by the Sousa band, Daddy
lied about<o:p></o:p></div>
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his age, proudly fought the
enemy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The abused dissociate, fly high
above<o:p></o:p></div>
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the pervert’s touch. Unsought,
the enemy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The little girl feared her body.
An occasion <o:p></o:p></div>
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of sin, she was taught. The
enemy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Without David’s star, there’s no
way of knowing<o:p></o:p></div>
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who’s the enemy, thought the
enemy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Survivors of wars often die in
cars that swerve, <o:p></o:p></div>
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on narrow stairs. Like dry-rot,
the enemy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Today’s feudal lords pull their
dark strings<o:p></o:p></div>
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in boardrooms. Gordian, their
knot: the enemy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Booth took a bullet in the neck,
no summer<o:p></o:p></div>
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patriot, having shot the enemy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Happy they who carpet bomb and
barrel bomb<o:p></o:p></div>
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to bring to nought the enemy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They hung Matt Shepard on a
barbed wire fence,<o:p></o:p></div>
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draped like an afterthought: the
enemy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The poet dived deeply into the
swamp, <o:p></o:p></div>
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in terza rima wrought the enemy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Train joyride: flying yellow
rape fields;</div>
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wolves. The wolves are not the
enemy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-35330304148497808192017-07-19T12:02:00.001-07:002017-07-19T16:38:51.850-07:00John Grabski's Sugar to Rust<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sherylmonks.files.wordpress.com/2016/02/john-grabski.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="800" height="279" src="https://sherylmonks.files.wordpress.com/2016/02/john-grabski.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">If you haven't read John
Grabski's short and flash fiction you're in for a treat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">His voice is pure, straightforward,
and filled with magic combinations of words that will stop you and keep you
reading at the same time. And reading his stories, you'll wonder why no
one has ever written about the things he writes about. If you have a
couple of hours, check out his website <a href="https://grabskiworks.com/"><span style="color: blue;">GRABSKI</span></a>. It's filled with stories that will
keep you reading and looking for more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">His work has appeared in <i>Boston
Accents</i>, <i>Change-Seven Magazine</i>, <i>The Tishman Review</i>, <i>Boston
Literary Magazine</i>, <i>Unbroken Journal</i>, <i>Eclectica Literary Mag</i>, <i>Animal
Literary Mag</i>, <i>The Harpoon Review</i>, <i>Ash & Bones</i>, <i>Crack
the Spine</i>, <i>Rope & Wire</i>, <i>Frontier Tales</i>, <i>Cyclamens
& Swords</i>, <i>Foliate Oak Literary Mag</i>, <i>Rocky Mountain Revival</i>
and a host of others. He holds an MBA with distinction from the University of
Liverpool and is an alum of Harvard Business School. </span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="background: white; color: #3e3e3e; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">You can find his published
work at <a href="http://grabskiworks.com/">GRABSKIworks.com</a> or reach him on twitter @GrabskiJohn when he's not
writing or riding his horse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sugar
to Rust<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">(First
Published in Jan 2017 edition of The Harpoon Review)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Winter.
You are eighty-four:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
call you a bastard but long after your gentle side had disappeared, owing to
two decades of vodka. Now you sit, surrounded by pillows and stare through the
only window that matters. That single pane that faces the bird feeder, empty
and swinging alone. It’s the only sign of life in this long forsaken place. This
pine board box where you spent your childhood—your beloved sugar shack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A mirror hangs, smudged and crooked, on the
adjacent wall and reflects your shrunken face—your beard, tangled and gray. On
the floor lies this week’s USA Today. Its curled pages marred with burns—a
yellow, ashen hue. The day is empty. No news worth reading and the birds have come
and gone. In a surly voice you instruct me to cancel the subscription. There
won’t be unpaid bills when your day comes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Autumn,
a decade before:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">You
smile from your wheelchair but only when you feel there is no other choice. At your
granddaughter’s wedding, you ask the groom between shots of whisky, “What kind
of man starts a family with a part time job?” You worked two shifts and
weekends to boot and that was before you had married—hauling booze from Long
Island to New Bedford, under straw in a cabbage truck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Six months prior, sometime in May, Dorothy,
your wife of fifty-four years collapses at breakfast without warning—her death,
followed by your brother and son. After her funeral, two months pass before you
utter a word. When you call for a meeting over dinner, your children breathe a
sigh of relief—a sign that you’re coming around. But it’s only to declare your
decision to sell the house, and your intentions to move to the sugar shack just
out of town. You close with instructions for a weekly delivery of bologna,
cigarettes and booze. When you finish, you depart without saying goodbye.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Autumn,
the year you turn sixty-four:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Halloween,
1960, the year the doctor took your leg. “Have you read Moby Dick?” you ask. You
stare out the hospital window and watch children in costumes skip down the
street. A tear wanders down your cheek. “My babies, my babies, my world,” you
say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Summer.
You are fifty-four:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It
is early evening in June and there is a party in the house that you bought for
your aging Mother. You are surrounded by sons, daughters, grandchildren and
sisters. With coffee in hand, you interrupt with your usual toast. “Look to
each other, my beautiful children. Be true and kind and gentle. And when
hardships come, and they inevitably will, when waves are cresting the bow, rise
up and declare together, I am the whale, I am Ishmael, <i>and this</i> is my sea.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Fall.
You are forty-six:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">You
work two jobs and bring fish home from the cannery on Fridays. You promise Dorothy
that a raise is around the bend. She smiles, and says it was never about money.
A loving home is all she needs. You bite your lip and nod. For love you supply in
abundance, expecting nothing but her smile in return.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Winter.
You are thirty-nine:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Christmas
Eve you insist upon the role of Santa. Just before midnight, you dance in the
snow and shake bells beneath the children’s windows. You lob snow balls that
land with a thump on the roof—no doubt Donner and Blitzen. Afterwards you wolf
down a tray of cookies, have a nightcap and go to bed. But not before spending
time on your knees, giving thanks for your blessings and the day ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">October.
You are twenty-nine:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
last leaves of autumn float down from the trees as you return home from the
cannery astride a beat up 1200cc Indian motorcycle. The low rumble of the
engine brings Dorothy to the porch and when you tell her the price she pelts
you with a dozen potatoes. A volley of banter ensues and you are ashamed but
lost for the reason why. It was the first time you’d ever bought a gift for
yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">After dinner in silence, with your eyes
aglow, you unbutton your shirt. Dorothy casts a confounded look. On your chest,
above your heart, you uncover a tattoo. The word, ‘DOT’ beneath the arc of a
rising sun. Dorothy smiles and shakes her head. It marks the end of the only
cross words that you’ll ever have between you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Spring.
You are twenty:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">You
twitch and there is a pit in your stomach but you summon the courage to lift
her veil. There is the scent of hyacinths as you kiss her hand, and then her
lips. You honeymoon at the Seaport Hotel a mile down the road, and spend the
next two days making plans for a home, your first Thanksgiving and names of
children to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Summer.
You are nineteen:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">You
arrive at the beach six hours early. You gather driftwood and dried leaves to
build a fire to steam clams that you dug from the sand the morning before. You
reach to feel for the silver band that pricks your thigh through the pocket of
your dungarees. When Dorothy arrives, you slip off your shoes and walk to the edge
of the sea, hand in hand. The froth encircles your ankles in rhythm with the
ebbing tide. With the sun behind you, you ask her to marry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">You cannot blame her for the moment it
takes to decide. She, a young woman of eighteen, bears the weight of your
dubious ways: the untoward liquor runs, the unintended scuffle with neighbors
on the fourth of July, and the time you took the ill-witted swipe at your
father. But you raise your chin, bright with promise—confident any bad days in life
were long since left behind you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-865802355877887322017-07-03T08:08:00.001-07:002017-07-05T13:12:50.391-07:00On the Road, Hijacked by Memory <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4tq5XKjlb8Dm-BtFanbR7jC90h7nh0Tg3QiYftl3Mqsy8dVOwbi7qBfQCYFV9nO57h0_JNd3wBuWSZ1FcMrHjav4lxC9sYHFXgcykoTnV3DhqAX1igchdsQmW5WFqiKBCe1eytBfsVwv/s1600/DSC_5000+sm.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="241" data-original-width="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4tq5XKjlb8Dm-BtFanbR7jC90h7nh0Tg3QiYftl3Mqsy8dVOwbi7qBfQCYFV9nO57h0_JNd3wBuWSZ1FcMrHjav4lxC9sYHFXgcykoTnV3DhqAX1igchdsQmW5WFqiKBCe1eytBfsVwv/s1600/DSC_5000+sm.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman bold" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">If you've been reading my poems, you'll know that so much of what I'm interested in is what's in our memories and how we can use what's there in our poetry and fiction and essay.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman bold" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">Andrena Zawinski, one of my favorite poets, has been thinking about memory too, and I'm pleased to be able to post one of her recent poems here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman bold" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">It's called "On the Road, Hijacked by Memory," and it originally appeared in <i>Bloodroot Literary Magazine</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman bold" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">ON THE ROAD HIJACKED BY MEMORY</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">“</span><span style="font-family: "times" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">We
draw our strength from the very despair </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , serif; font-size: 10.0pt;">in which we have been forced to
live...”––Cesar Chavez<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">Riding another lazy Sunday afternoon <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">along the sun-drenched blacktop
stretch <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">coasting through California’s Central
Valley, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">its pastures peppered by slaughterhouse
steer, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">its fields</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman bold" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">dense
with migrants––some sporting <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">United Farm Worker eagles on caps, all of
them<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">packed into growers’ whitewashed school
buses, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">all of them off to bend and hoe, chop
and prune, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">pick and haul Ag Giants nuts and
roots and fruits<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">for the Walmart Super Centers and Taco
Bells.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">In the car’s backseat, church onion domes <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">crop up inside my head, their rows of
candles <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">flickering again for all my dead: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> For
the Ukrainian grandfather, face reddened <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> from
the heat of hot steel, muscles knotted <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> and
clothes grimy, who choked to death <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> struggling
with words in a strange tongue, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> lungs
dense in</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman bold" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">smoke and soot,
air and water fouled <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> forging
Pittsburgh steel for the Carnegies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> For
the Slovak one who carried United Mine Worker <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> protest
pickets to the coal bosses instead of pick and shovel <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> down
into the pitch dark shafts of the Windber mine, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> who
survived a cave-in, but not being robbed <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> by
the company store and a black lung death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> For
my mother, after the assembly line night shift <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> at
Federal Enamel inspecting pots and pans <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> for
dimples and blisters, one hand at the small of her <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> aching
back bent over the Amana. the other <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> scrambling
eggs then scooting my brother and me <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> off
to school neatly dressed with full bellies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> For
my father at Pressed Steel welding railroad cars <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> in
the McKees Rocks Bottoms, tagged Cossack <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> and
taunted to jump and spin and kick, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> who
got lost in a bottle of vodka and thorazine, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;"> another blue collar chasing a middle-class
dream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">But the range here today along this
California stretch<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">runs ragged in rain shadow and a
watery-eyed sky<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">looming above tract homes and trailer camp
estates, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">flashy billboards boasting sprouting
condos, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">commercial real estate for Nestles’
Purina works, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">another Chrysler-Jeep dealership, new
strip mall <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">saddling up to wheat and oats and alfalfa,
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">the Delta’s humpback hills carpeted
green in spring––<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">everything predictable, unlike
this day trip, hijacked <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">by memory to detour along a bumpy
backroad, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">my own breath now so heavy-laden,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">my every muscle aching.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 11.0pt;">________________</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Andrena
Zawinski’s latest poetry collection, </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;"><i>Landings</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><i>, </i>is from Kelsay Books (Hemet, CA).
She has published two previous full collections of poetry: </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;"><i>Something About</i> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">(Blue Light Press, San
Francisco, CA), a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award recipient, and </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;"><i>Traveling in Reflected Light</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> (Pig Iron Press, Youngstown, O), a
Kenneth Patchen competition winner. She has also authored four chapbooks and is
editor of <i>T</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;"><i>urning
a Train of Thought Upside Down: An Anthology of Women’s Poetry</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">. Her poems have received accolades
for free verse, form, lyricism, spirituality, and social concern. She founded
and runs the San Francisco Bay Area Women’s Poetry Salon and is Features Editor
at <i>P</i></span><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_s1026" style='position:absolute;
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><i>oetryMagazine.com</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51d62sfKIHL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51d62sfKIHL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">In
</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;"><i>Landings</i>, </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Zawinski</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">presents</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">poems that embrace, in original
ways and with deep-rooted emotional power, the worldwide condition of women,
immigrants, and the working class alongside an abiding reverence for the
natural world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="BodyA" style="margin-right: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Of this work, Jan Beatty says </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;">Zawinski is the necessary voice of the truth
teller, speaking trouble among the beauty. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Rebecca Foust lauds the collection </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;">as a book that offers wisdom
and solace and one you will take comfort in reading again and again.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> Carolyne Wright goes on to say in </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;">these Landings, she embraces
the richness of human experience and praises the courage of those who go on ‘</span><span style="color: #09030f; font-family: "times new roman italic" , serif;">living as if
they could do anything.</span><span style="color: #09030f; font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">’</span><br />
<span style="color: #09030f; font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #09030f; font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">If you want to read some other poems by Andrena Zawinski that have appeared here at Writing the Polish Diaspora, please click on the following titles: </span><a href="http://writingpolishdiaspora.blogspot.com/2010/02/something-about-by-andrena-zawinski.html" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;">Something About </a>and <a href="http://writingpolishdiaspora.blogspot.com/2009/08/andrena-zawinski-at-caffe-greco.html">Triptych of Three Pines</a>. <br />
<br />
<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Landings-Andrena-Zawinski/dp/1945752726/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1499285526&sr=8-1&keywords=zawinski+landings">Landings </a></i>is available at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Landings-Andrena-Zawinski/dp/1945752726/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1499285526&sr=8-1&keywords=zawinski+landings">Amazon</a>, and through Andrena Zawinski at andrena.zawinski@att.net<br />
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John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-25311539418804256292017-06-05T11:17:00.004-07:002021-08-16T13:48:23.827-07:00Poems by Casimir Wojciech<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbKlqE_yDVJZPTyraMFdDbfQe1stiyqTg3tffohiDm3vk3e2L8nfQ22T2MRVSyLjcqs3mOwv2ryIof0tTHWwJTfMjbwYDATQ0FXuB90KNxilvQwLUAKff7GE6ZUf-3QA3cj2ObKA4tATI/s1600/cwojciech2-17.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbKlqE_yDVJZPTyraMFdDbfQe1stiyqTg3tffohiDm3vk3e2L8nfQ22T2MRVSyLjcqs3mOwv2ryIof0tTHWwJTfMjbwYDATQ0FXuB90KNxilvQwLUAKff7GE6ZUf-3QA3cj2ObKA4tATI/s400/cwojciech2-17.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="il" face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12.8px;">I first met Casimir</span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12.8px;"> </span><span class="il" face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12.8px;">Wojciech</span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12.8px;"> on twitter and was immediately taken by his poetry. He's</span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12.8px;"> a third generation Polish-American whose work has been featured at the Library of Congress and in various magazines here and abroad.</span><br />
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12.8px;">He currently resides in the Arizona desert where he works as a contracted painter. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12.8px;">You can find him on Twitter at @caswojciech.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12.8px;">Here are some of his poems:</span><div><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><div>the day they drained the wishing well</div><div>is the day we overthrew father time</div><div>from his throne of authority.</div><div><br /></div><div>there isn't anything else to be said</div><div>of moonrakers & their subjects.</div><div><br /></div><div>otherwise you wouldn't have found me</div><div>zoned out on space-time again</div><div>face to face with this mountain.</div><div><br /></div><div>do you remember a time before chain link & iron?</div><div>bolt cutters & winches?</div><div>red wine & paper cups?</div><div><br /></div><div>...the cargo of dream bodies</div><div>through vanishing daylight</div><div>carried</div><div>like many glimpses over yr shoulder.</div></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">(i became a poet because the night,</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">wine, women and the eyes always</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">say it first)</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">what is more beautiful than</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">this city at night?</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">window open, this warm air</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">purines the parts of the self</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">hidden from the tongue.</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">i can sit here with the night, a radio,</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">a bottle of wine and watch</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">the stars do what we try.</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">with dreams: as often as you can without going insane.</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">if someone should ask about </div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">the mind of this man, tell them</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">i felt most alive next to rivers</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">we sweat on bus stop benches discussing</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">the science of walking mountains and</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">if we all pray for the same thing at the same time</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">who gets it first?</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">the sun is a kenneled hound, just</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">another star that will explode like a</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">heart too near to what it cannot take back</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">time slowly becomes a promise we break</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">with that piece of the self</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">we talk to</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">on the other side</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">(have we always been these ghosts</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">blind stepping with javalina</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">across gravel roads & hungry alleys—</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">staggered visions scarring</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">the flesh of desert nights</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">, a trace of shivering mountains crawling)</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">cool gardens of momentum</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">, warm wind gallops by visions of youth</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">stoke the otherside</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">our music pouring softly without us</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">again, will you tell me with six feet of Earth—</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">silence is drawn like two hearts to each other—</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">a flooded basement, a sawdust moon,</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">an empty bus stop across the bridge</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">temptation & alone</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">this foray against leaving</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">it looks like rain in yr hair</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">poetry is the emptying of the already empty mind</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">poetry is a prophetic river</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">poetry is a burning city asking at what bus stop</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">did yr leaning cathedrals leave their bodies</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">poetry is the ocean's wave titled upon yr deserted chest</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">poetry is an IOU from humming birds who forget you are</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">great at making love</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">poetry is the aura of yr shoe laces</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">poetry is the mask of past lives' lovers</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">telling yr heart to ripple every morning</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">you awaken within a stranger's skin</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">poetry is the flippant response to yr own realization</div></div><div dir="ltr"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr"><br /></div><div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span></div></div>John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-86137152138252731312016-11-17T07:59:00.003-08:002016-11-17T07:59:56.205-08:00Call for Submissions: Catholic PoetryI just received this in the mail today and thought I would share it:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Call for submissions -- new poetry journal -- Presence: A Journal of Catholic Poetry</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">We will be reading poetry</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> for our first annual issue (spring 2017). </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Presence, a new journal planned for annual print publication each spring, is an independent journal affiliated with the Department of English, Caldwell University, Caldwell, NJ, and edited by Mary Ann B. Miller, editor of the anthology, St. Peter's B-list: Contemporary Poems Inspired by the Saints (Ave Maria, 2014). Advisory Board members are Susanne Paola Antonetta, William Baer, Paul Contino, Dana Gioia, Paul Mariani, Angela Alaimo O'Donnell, and Judith Valente. We publish poems informed by the Catholic faith on the basis of their artistic excellence, rather than on the basis of the author's professed creed or because the subject matter is explicitly Catholic. We encourage contributors to refer to our mission statement when selecting poems for submission.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Please send up to five unpublished poems, no more than three pages in length, in a single Word file, Times New Roman font (12-point). Be sure that your name, mailing address, phone number, and email address appear at the top of every page of the file. The first page of the file should be a short cover letter in which you clearly state your intention to be published in the journal and provide a brief bio, as outlined on our website. Please attach the file to an email to the editor at mmillerATcaldwellDOTedu with the following subject line: "Submit poems to Presence."</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Our mission statement and further submission guidelines may be found on </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;"><a href="http://www.catholicpoetryjournal.com/">http://www.catholicpoetryjournal.com/</a>.</span></span></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">-- </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Mary Ann Miller, Ph.D.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Dept. of English</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Caldwell University</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">120 Bloomfield Avenue</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Caldwell, NJ 07006</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><a href="tel:%28973%29%20618-3454" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank" value="+19736183454">(973) 618-3454</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Fax </span><a href="tel:%28973%29%20618-3375" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" target="_blank" value="+19736183375">(973) 618-3375</a><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">www.caldwell.edu</span>John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-39634235039400334452016-08-04T07:24:00.002-07:002016-08-04T07:24:14.030-07:00Martyrdom by John Minczeski<br />
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">Polish-American poet John Minczeski was recently featured in
the <b>New Yorker</b> magazine. John's poems have appeared in various publications.
His recent book<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Letter
to Serafin</span></b><span style="background: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;"> speaks of his
love of Poland and his Polish ancestors. My review and a sample poem can be found by clicking this <a href="http://writingpolishdiaspora.blogspot.com/2009/07/john-minczeskis-letter-to-serafin.html">link</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: Georgia, serif;">You can hear John read the poem at the <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/05/23/martyrdom-by-john-minczeski">New Yorker site</a>. </span></div>
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<a href="https://postcardpoemsandprose.files.wordpress.com/2016/07/unnamed-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://postcardpoemsandprose.files.wordpress.com/2016/07/unnamed-6.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-stretch: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">Martyrdom</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">The martyr does not die. He lives to create more like him.</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="text-indent: -1em;">The conscience lives behind an anonymous window</span></span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">In tangletown. It is difficult to find the right one.</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">You call and call and there is no answer. But never</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">A busy signal. The martyrs climb one side</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">Of a mountain and descend the other. It is a world</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">Full of dangers, hidden crevasses, avalanches,</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">And so overwhelmingly beautiful they sometimes</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">Wish they could die right there. They endure</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">Hardship and posthumous fame</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">With its bitter aftertaste, the feeling of looking</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">Almost into infinity, which leaves them giddy,</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">As if drunk. They carry miles of rope for their descents.</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">So many martyrs. So much rope. So much</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">Climbing and descending. Though very hard, their work</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">Goes on. The conscience, meanwhile, cooks an egg.</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">It brushes water on a hard crust and fries it in a skillet,</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">Making it chewable. It may go to market later today,</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; border: 0px; display: block; font-family: "Adobe Caslon", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 20px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; text-indent: -1em; text-rendering: geometricPrecision; vertical-align: baseline;">but then again it may wait until tomorrow.</span>John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-50551075552827220612015-07-30T10:54:00.000-07:002015-07-30T11:41:41.812-07:00Proof by Karina Borowicz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51fprYcJSxL._SX304_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51fprYcJSxL._SX304_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" height="320" width="196" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All poets are teachers, and the best poets are the ones who have learned to teach in such a way that we learn from them with joy and ease and certainty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Karina Borowicz is this kind of teacher.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Reading her poems I feel that I am learning about the world, both the little things and the big things, in such a way that I will be transformed by her lessons and that I will carry these lessons to others, and they will feel the joy I felt. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here are a couple of her poems, so that you'll be able to see what I mean. </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Tools </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hammer and hacksaw, vise and screwdriver have the hard gaze</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and slow heartbeat of reptiles. I am visiting the hardware store</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">with my father. In a wooden drawer stained by dirty fingers</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">a sea of nails rolls back and forth. The bare light bulb</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">burning in the middle of the ceiling cuts deep shadows</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">in the men's faces, silent men that smell of sawdust and kerosene,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">boiled cabbage and cigarettes. When I furtively pick up a crested little tool</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">its claws bite my palm. The neighborhood's only color TV glows neon</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">in the dark room behind the register. Cowboys are fighting at the bar,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">chairs are crashing, the soundtrack builds ominously.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">School for the Blind </span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Photo Exhibit at the Central House of Artists, Moscow</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A boy, his scalp covered</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">with white stubble, his face up close,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">all sharp bone, all light</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and shadow. In the hollows </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">of his eyes, darkness runs</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">too deep to give anything back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Is it right to gaze so freely</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">at the blind? My shame</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and my tenderness are beating </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">together. I look away,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">then step closer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Back in the street I'm greedy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">for faces. Only these carry with them</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">a different ligh, not time-stopped.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">These mouths move, these eyes</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">gaze back, these faces</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">flicker in the human breeze</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">as we stream over the sidewalk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The cobalt beginnings of hair barely visible</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">on a man's shaven chin. An old woman</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">whose eyebrows have worn down</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">to puckered skin. Ears, some red,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">some folded, or wing-like. Beneath this angry</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">winter sky, there's nothing as beautiful</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">as our bare, imperfect faces.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yet the photograph stays with me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">like the tightened, white line</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">of a scar. A negative after-image</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">that glows with otherworldly perfection. </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Karina Borowicz's book <i>Proof </i>is available at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Proof-Codhill-Press-Karina-Borowicz/dp/1930337752">Amazon</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">____________________________________</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">Karina Borowicz was born in New Bedford, Massachusetts. She earned a BA in history and Russian from the University of Massachusetts and an MFA from the University of New Hampshire. Borowicz spent five years teaching English in Russia and Lithuania, and has translated poetry from Russian and French. Her first collection of poetry, </span><em style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">The Bees Are Waiting </em><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">(2012), won the Marick Press Poetry Prize, the Eric Hoffer Award for Poetry, the First Horizon Award, and was named a Must-Read by the Massachusetts Center for the Book. Her second book, </span><em style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">Proof </em><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;">(2014), won the Codhill Poetry Award and was a finalist for the National Poetry Series and the Nightboat Press Poetry Prize. Borowicz lives with her family in the Pioneer Valley of Massachusetts. </span></div>
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John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-21999814076167541412014-12-19T07:38:00.000-08:002014-12-19T07:38:10.407-08:00London Manuscript by Anna Maria Mickiewicz<h1 style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px; clear: both; color: #555555; font-family: Lato, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 26px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.2em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 10px;">
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<em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">The following is Tomas Niedokos' review of London Manuscript by Anna Maria Mickiewicz. The review originally appeared in Nowy Czas:</em></div>
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This is a new volume of verse by Anna Maria Mickiewicz, a Polish-English poet writing in Polish and English and living and publishing in England. Based in London, she is a keen observer of the natural (parks and gardens) and cultural life of the Metropolis, aware of centuries of history behind her and the cultural landscape around her.</div>
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Her poems are epiphanies in which an instant observation, always rooted in a particular locality, may lead to other worlds: to Ancient Greece, Middle Ages or to thePolandof the poet’s youth. Socrates can be spotted in a quietLondongarden and “What if the woman on the beach was a cousin of Virginia Woolf’s?” The Dead are always with us in the communion of culture.</div>
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Being a Pole, and a distant relative of the great Polish romantic poet, Mickiewicz cannot leave behind the turbulent history of her country and Eastern Europe (transportations toSiberia, Marshal Law), which was also the history of her family and herself. The memories of “a crumbling world order”, generations “tainted by the pain of parting with the unsettled soil” add certain sadness and discord to the tone of this poetry, which seems to be in quiet and resigned harmony with its space and time.</div>
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Other poems, by contrast, are “impressionist” pieces (“Summer inSeaford”), evoking a passing moment, mood or sight, which allow the reader to see things from an unexpected perspective, to discover the unfamiliar in the familiar thanks to a well-crafted and perceptive metaphor. The poet has a special penchant for capturing watery phenomena: fogs, mists, puddles, “droplets of water”, so typical of English landscape and cityscape, but in the end they are always seen through the filter of culture; nature and culture coalesce.</div>
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A love of England, its nature and culture transpire from these poems, the poet seems to be very well rooted in her adopted country, but the outlook, metaphors, similes are her own and refreshing, drawing from the experience of living in two cultures, two histories and, last but not least, two languages. And for the reader it is an interesting and pleasing journey through this very sensual, but also marked by history and culture, poetic world.</div>
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Tomasz Niedokos</div>
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<em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Tomasz Niedokos is a Lublin-based academic. He works on English literature. His PhD was on "The Concept of English Culture in the Cultural Biographies of Peter Ackroyd”</em></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A London dream <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Her mother’s
voice: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Where will they send us?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We should pack the things we need.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Remember about the family silver, table cloths.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Quick!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now! <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">What else will we need? <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">What else will we need?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The Departure<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The world
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Arkhangelsk
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This was not Siberia</span></i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In Arkhangelsk <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was not possible. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A frozen
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Is kept
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Muddy fields,
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Someone
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I am only dreaming at night<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The dream will disappear </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">__________________</span></i></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Summer in Seaford</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">The sun sheds its golden drops.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">The sea devours them instantly.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">The sky shimmers.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">The day is snatched from another story.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">We’re arriving, here at the end of the line.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">We convince ourselves that infinite space is an
illusion…</span><br />
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">We walk through the small English town.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">A tiny station, plaster falling unevenly off the
wooden beams.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Before us the Channel gleams threateningly.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">In the distance a cliff plunges sharply into the
sea.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">No chips, no ice cream, no candy floss.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Dead jellyfish glitter on the pebbles.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">The day passes lazily by<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">A ship silhouetted in grey against its face.</span><br />
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<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">On the beach a couple unfold deckchairs</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Wrinkled skin<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">They read the papers.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">They seem unreal<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Postimpressionist faces</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">All nonchalant<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">We’re heading back.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">The cafes and restaurants are closed.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Who lives here at the end of the world?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Looking through photographs of the scandalous
Bloomsbury set,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">An old snapshot.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">A gaunt young woman and a man in deckchairs.</span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">They are reading the papers.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">What if the woman on the beach was a cousin of
Virginia Woolf's?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Who was the man?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">A poet?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Or one of her scandalous friends?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Anna Maria
Mickiewicz<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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</div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-family: Garamond, serif; font-size: 12pt;">London</span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</div>
</div>
John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-38420782703236944132014-12-16T05:19:00.003-08:002014-12-16T05:22:02.705-08:00With Blood and Scars by B. E. Andre<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: small;">A note by Danusha Goska from <a href="http://bieganski-the-blog.blogspot.com/">Bieganski the Blog</a>: </span></span></h3>
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<span style="background-color: white;">"With Blood and Scars" by BE Andre</span></h3>
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<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-6379865674155345752" itemprop="description articleBody" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.5; position: relative; width: 568px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga9jVl4iS_uzbh5my5Ywv_LB5p541RfUzrV30PMmI-6EOa-0y_fbZWs40Vp1RToCF8NBdbTR0XKXKckMuW_cTR5wtChvQrxkxFr_UUdm3sBfKy7q7yEQU6hRg_mM4YZ0GGq8RsjHPt_hZn/s1600/23639373.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #993322; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga9jVl4iS_uzbh5my5Ywv_LB5p541RfUzrV30PMmI-6EOa-0y_fbZWs40Vp1RToCF8NBdbTR0XKXKckMuW_cTR5wtChvQrxkxFr_UUdm3sBfKy7q7yEQU6hRg_mM4YZ0GGq8RsjHPt_hZn/s1600/23639373.jpg" height="320" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 8px; position: relative;" width="212" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #333333;">"</span>With Blood and Scars" is a new Polish-themed book by B. E. Andre.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The book has two plotlines. One involves children, and is from the past. One involves a Polish father dying of cancer in modern day England, and his adult child hoping to learn the full facts of his life before he dies.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The book's intriguing title comes from a passage written for Polish children about their own country. How was Poland born? "With blood and scars." </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's the book description from Amazon:</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Time is running out for Ania. She needs to ask her dying father a vital question; his answer is the key to how she will lead the rest of her life. She must force him to revisit his childhood in Poland in 1944, a time when decisions about survival were made on the spur of the moment, a place where chaos undermined all previous morality. Who is her father really? Can she bear to find out? </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another secret also torments her: an incident she filed in her memory store. Now the police have found the remains of a child in Whalley Range. Should she try to find the gang of friends from her own childhood days? Or should she keep the secret of what happened then? This coming-of-age novel is a tale of heroic survival against all odds: a life-affirming story of courage and hope set against harrowing circumstances. It celebrates the goodness that can be found in all nations." </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">_______________</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The book is available from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Scars-B-E-Andre/dp/0993147208/ref=sr_1_1_twi_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418736019&sr=1-1&keywords=with+blood+and+scars">Amazon</a>.</span></span></div>
John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-80250750999395168912014-11-25T12:42:00.004-08:002014-11-25T12:42:56.783-08:00Arpil Snow by Oriana Ivy<div class="MsoNormal">
<img height="400" src="https://finishinglinepress.com/images/993Ivy3%20cov.jpg" width="260" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Oriana
Ivy’s book of poems <b>April Snow</b> won the New Women’s Voices Prize in Poetry in
2011.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">She
deserved that prize, and plenty of others as well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Re-reading
it the book this morning, I was again touched by her gifts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Here’s
the blurb I wrote for her book when it first came out:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Oriana Ivy
is the best kind of poet. She writes
about things that matter – family and work, love and the past, nature and
history – in a way that always sounds honest, never tired or familiar. Read her.
She’s got an ear for language and an eye for image that make her poems
as irresistible as joy and kindness.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Every
word is still true. Maybe truer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Here
are a couple of the poems from her book that I especially liked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;"><b>GRANDMOTHER’S LAUGHTER</b><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">One day in the street my grandmother <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">stops before another grandmother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Both stammer: “It’s you – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">you – in Auschwitz – ”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Turning to me: “She and I shared <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">the same blanket. Every night she said, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">‘You’ve got more than I’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">and pulled, and I pulled back, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">and so we’d tug across the bunk – ”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">And the two grandmothers laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">In the middle of a crowded <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">sidewalk, in old women’s dusk,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">widows’ browns and grays, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">they are laughing like two schoolgirls – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">tears rain down the cracked <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">winter of their cheeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">On Piotrkowska Avenue, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">on the busiest street,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">they are tugging that thin blanket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">They are pulling back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;"><b>WARSAW POPLARS</b><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It’s not the country I miss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I miss the poplars <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">lining the long avenue, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">leafy perspective I loved to trace<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">from my fourth-story window,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">past Cemetery of the Russian Soldiers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">all the way to the airport.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The avenue was named <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">after the first aviators. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; text-transform: uppercase;">u</span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">ncle Gienio, killed in air battle
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">over <span style="text-transform: uppercase;">f</span>rance,
was an aviator,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">smiling from his biplane,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">fading in a sepia photograph.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">To his little sister, my mother, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">he said, “We’ll fly around the world.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I stood in each window,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">walked out every door –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">daydreamed on all bridges, dazed <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">with departure’s nets of light. I too <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">wanted to fly around the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">At seventeen, you don’t ask <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">the price. In a sepia October, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I left. Behind me swayed <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Warsaw poplars, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">tree by tree bowing back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Shadows laced my hands, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">the passing leaves<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">rustled warnings I didn’t hear –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">long perspective of poplars,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">upward arms burned to gold –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">behind me an endless <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">avenue of gold wind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">___________________________________</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The book is available from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/April-Womens-Voices-Prize-Winner/dp/1622290496/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1416947919&sr=1-1&keywords=april+snow+oriana+ivy">Amazon</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">She blogs about art, writing, psychology, God, myth, and poetry at her blog <a href="http://oriana-poetry.blogspot.com/">Oriana-Poetry</a>. </span></div>
John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-80914113080343182502014-11-18T10:32:00.000-08:002014-11-18T12:51:09.705-08:00Interview with Leszek Szymanski<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This
posting of <b>Writing the Polish Diaspora</b>
features Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak’s interview with Polish writer <i><u>leszek
szymanski</u></i>*<i><u>:</u></i><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><i><u><br /></u></i></span>
<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><i><u><br /></u></i></span>
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<b><i><u><span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></u></i></b>
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<b><i><u><span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></u></i></b>
<b><i><u><span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 150%;">leszek
szymanski </span></u></i></b><b><span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<strong><span lang="PL" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Bozena
Helena Mazur-Nowak:</span></strong><span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> I would like to
present to our readers an unusual figure in <b><i><u>l</u></i></b>eszek <b><i><u>s</u></i></b>zymanski*
(aka Dr. Leslie Shyman), a writer, journalist, historian, traveler, politolog,
philosopher, and a leading figure among Polish Emigre writers. He is the author
of many works of fiction and nonfiction, mostly in English, and has his place
in the literatures of Poland, Australia and the USA. He is also a
recipient of the Joseph Conrad (Korzeniowski) Award of Miasto Literatow (City
of Writers). In Poland he is known in
literary circles as the legendary founder of "wspolczesnosc" (the
Contemporary), an amazing small magazine with a circulation of 55,000! In
1956, that was the only private and independent publication behind the Iron
Curtain.<br />
<br />
</span><b><i><span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The Interview</span></i></b><span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<strong>Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak:</strong> Why did you leave Poland, I
believe, in 1959, and what was your first destination abroad? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<em><b><u>leszek.szymanski.</u></b></em><strong> </strong>To answer this
question, I must move backward to 1956---the year of the so called "Polish
October (peaceful) Revolution." The birth of Wspolczesnosc was
possible only because of pre- revolutionary ferment which started after
Stalin's death, and it reached its apogee in Poland in October 1956. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
We were reasonably independent in literary matters and completely
independent in financial matters. But once Comrade Wieslaw (Wladyslaw
Gomulka) was established in power, even quasi literary autonomy could not
be tolerated by the monopolistic Party. Only the Roman Catholic Church
was allowed semi-independence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Thus, we were soon taken by the government conglomerate of RSWP. No
personnel changes were made to the editorial board, but I was given a deputy
chief editor named JOZEF LENART. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Lenart was a youth activist of the Union of Polish Youth (ZMP), an ex co-editor
of its daily Banner of Youth (Sztandar Mlodych), and a trusted party man.
He was also antagonistic towards us, a group of independent young writers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I remember once, when I was waiting in the corridors of power of the
Central Committee of Z.M.P., Lenart approached me. Smiling, with one hand
pointed toward the palm of his other hand, he said, "Sooner the hair will
grow on the palm of my hand, than you will publish ''wspolczesnosc.''
Now, still <i>with a bold palm<strong><u>,</u></strong></i> he became my
deputy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I never had any illusions about Gomulka's liberalism and it was obvious
to me that the days of our semi-independence were ending and we would have to
follow the Party line through all its zigzags, while <b><i><u>it </u></i></b>pretending
to be following a straight line. That Party line was the equivalent of today's
political correctness---no matter how stupid and contradictory it was, you had
to follow it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Those in our group who were not submissive enough would be eliminated. I
was right, though not about the timing. It took much longer to dissolve
our group than I thought it would. Jan Zbigniew Slojewski was treated
especially badly---for a long time, he was not allowed to print anything.
Andrzej Chacinski was moved from the secretary of the editorial board to an
equivalent position in some small cooperative magazine. Zbigniew Irzyk found
shelter in Pax press. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
In 1959, Teodor Parnicki (then still in Mexico), the author of End
of the Peace of Nation, granted me an award for continuing his novel. And
off I went with my then first wife Jadwiga de domo Ornowska to India, to do
historic research for that book. While in India, I was wondering why my
"reportages" from that country were not printed. Then I heard
that I was to be arrested and that the Polish embassy wanted me to
return. At the time I was in Himalayas, at Rishikes <b>xxx</b>
with Shri Shivananda Guru, thanks to Wanda Dynowska, in his
ashram. (The words "guru" and "ashram" did not have the
present currency---again, I happened to be a pioneer.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Previously, in New Delhi, I had met two people---an Indian writer and a
member of the Congress from Cultural Freedom, Prabhagar Padhye, and Arthur
Koestler, a then very well known anti-communist writer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
In hindsight, the news about my imminent arrest was grossly exaggerated, or
perhaps purposely made to push me to ask for asylum, which would have gotten
rid of a now awkward person. The Marek Hlasko incident was still fresh,
and if I remember correctly, Jozef Lenart asked us to discuss "casus
Hlasko", i.e. condemn him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Anyway, my wife and I requested de facto asylum to the Australian High Commission,
the British High Commission, and the US. Embassy. The British and the
Americans promised to consider the matter. Sir Robert Menzies, the Prime
Minister of Australia, granted us immigrant visas in I believe three
days. And with that, my wife and I flew to Sydney with a long layover in
Manila. <br />
<br />
<strong>BH</strong>: Who paid the tickets? And why the immigrant
visas? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<strong><i><u>l.s</u></i></strong>: Congress for Cultural Freedom. And
immigrant, because I did not want to give my friends and colleagues any
trouble, as well as my mother since my father had just died. I did not
want to make a political gesture as Marek Hlasko, Andrzej Brycht and many
others did, regardless of the consequences for those left behind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<strong>BH</strong>: I have heard that you have already knew
English. How was that? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<strong><i><u>l.s</u></i>: </strong>In or about 1953, I met at the Warsaw Youth
Festival an Indian Writer, KEDAR NATH, who became one of my best friends.
I invited him to Poland and he stayed with me till I left that country. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
From him, I learned how to speak English. Previously, I had a passive knowledge
of the language--- <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I could read and translate, but not talk. I had English in school
(gimnazium i liceum im, Stefana Batorego). My father Kazimierz spoke and
wrote English. And Edward Simmons of the American Embassy (a mysterious
figure) helped me with spoken English and invited me for movies and parties at
the embassy. Now that friendship could really be a pretext for an arrest.
<br />
<br />
<strong>BH</strong><span style="background: white;">: Tell us about your
connections with Jerzy Giedroyc, Mieczyslaw Grydzewski and Marek Hlasko.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<em><b><u>l.s</u>.</b></em><strong>: </strong>In Poland i had a contract
signed for the publication of the collection of my short stories ESCAPE TO THE
TROPICS<strong>.</strong> It had a foreword by Stanislaw Rembek. The
contract was signed with a quasi independent and quasi Roman Catholic
organisation PAX. When the Party took us over, the Pax declined to honour the
agreement (they [Pax] were after us, and displeased with me), but our new
publisher RSW Prasa, did signed a new publishing contract.<br />
I had a number of short stories published in the various magazines, and even
won a III Prize in the competition by Union of Polish Writers for a story
about Adam Mickiewicz. But I was not as well known as Marek Hlasko, and maybe,
a book publication would change the situation. I felt i was not worse writer
than him.<br />
<br />
<b>BH: </b>Pardon me, but what it has to do with Giedroyc and
Grydzewski ? Also I'd like to know more about your connection with PAX. Did you
know Boleslaw Piasecki?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<strong><i><u>l</u></i>eszek <i><u>s</u></i>zymanski </strong>smiling: Yes, my
book has a lot to do or rather not to do with Giedroyc, while in Manila I
sent MS to Giedroyc, who by now became the third prospective publisher and
promised to print it. I think he sent me $100. But for a budding author
having his first book published was more important than that money, not too
small in those times. Now, to answer your question I must move forward
chronologically.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I met Giedroyc much later in the editorial office of Kultura in Paris. drunk
tea though when I visited Poland first time after 50 years I saw over the roof
of Muzeum Literatury an advertisement to the sense "DRINK GIEDROYC"S
VODKA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I met the really <u>legendary</u> founder of Wiadomosci Literackie,
Mieczyslaw Grydzewski(Grydz) relatively often in his editorial office opposite
to the British Museum. His unofficial office was in the Press reading room of
that ancient and famous institution, the newspaper Reading Room being still at
the old address. As to Marek Hlasko I met him much, much later in Los
Angeles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
We spent almost a year collaborating on a novel "Devils in the Rain or
Rice Eaters" Danuta Blaszak writes about that, and times of
'wspolczesnosc". She intends to write the Doctorial Theses on the subject.
How indeed! from the marginal literary magazine in the shadow of PO PROSTU, we
landed in the history of the Polish Literature, and even perhaps became a footnote
to the Political History of 1956.</span><span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<span style="background: white;"><br />
<b>BH: </b>But what about Pax?It played diversive role towards the
Church being "rezymowi Katolicy", the government Catholics.
Especially doubtful was the role of the "fuhrer" Boleslaw
Piasecki.And his "State Instinct" in 1956. How close you were to him?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<b><i><u>l.s</u></i>: </b>Not close at all. I met him perhaps three times,
for some short and non consequential polite conversations. I met more
often his deputy Mieczyslaw Kurzyna and the director of PAX Publishing House;
Teresa Englert,Krzyszton, Dolecki, Lichanski, Dobraczynski? and some other
literary people, Stanislaw Rembek included.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I met all of them through Bohdan Slezkin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Slezkin after being released from prison (He was of course
"political" ) found shelter in Pax who used his illustrations and
graphic works in their publications.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Pax helped a number of ex political prisoners and also those writers who were
not accepted by the monopolistic government publishers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Also Pax openly allowed us not to love and admire, worship the elder brother
Soviet Union, saying we have to tolerate them and make the best of the
dependency situation as Margrabia Wielopolski did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Well,they were oasis of common sense in the sands of idiotic boot lickers,
pardon the awkwardness of this mixed metaphor.<br />
<b><br />
<br />
BH: </b>And how successful was that first book of yours, published by
Jerzy Giedroyc? I assume it was in
Polish? He had ways to smuggle his books and the magazine into Poland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<b><i><u>l.s:</u></i> </b>Of course, but it was never published by
Giedroyc.It was printed about six years later as ESCAPE TO THE TROPICS with
about half of the stories with the Australian background.Then, and NOW<strong>,</strong> looking
retrospectively it was very bad thing this breaking contract. My book did not
became known in Poland nor abroad on emigration, and when came the great return
of Demiurges, emigre writers, I had been completely forgotten in Poland.</span><span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<span style="background: white;"><br />
<b>BH: </b>What has happened?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<strong><i><u>l.s.:</u></i></strong>Jerzy Giedroyc who was financed for his
work; grew into a saintly figure in Poland. In the counter distinction to
Mieczyslaw Grydzewski who was paid by nobody but who tried to pay his authors
though he himself, was wearing the same old pants and jacket all those times I
met him.<br />
<br />
<b>BH: </b>Do you mean Giedroyc did not pay?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<strong>Szymanski</strong> smiling again: No he paid and paid better than Grydz.
He had his sources. Giedroyc did not print my book but deducted his advance
from the royalties for the articles I had written for KULTURA<br />
<br />
<strong>BH: </strong>And why he did not publsh the book<strong>?<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
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<b><span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<strong> <i><u>l.s.</u></i> </strong></span></b><span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Giedroyc was more of the political figure than the literary
one. He never wrote me so, neither told, but the reason was, I guess, that I
did not make noise about choosing freedom, and he did not assisted me
politically or otherwise, except that $100 or so, and he was not behind my
decision. Just thinks about possible headlines:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
The chief editor of only independent literary magazine in the Eastern Europe
asks for Asylum says Jerzy Giedroyc, the editor of emigre KULTURA.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Such a head line or at least assumption at the proper places, would be a
feather to his cup. as were Marek Hlasko and Andrzej Brycht. Forgive again the
quality of the metaphor.<br />
And perish the thought maybe he simply thought the stories were not good
enough.<br />
<br />
<strong>BH: </strong>So who and when published that book, if at all<strong>?<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
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<b><span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<strong><i><u>l.s.</u></i>: </strong></span></b><span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I think I have approached all the British, Australian
publishers and gathered almost as many rejection slips, and a few nice letters
of praise but no offers. Similarly to my novel "Drunken Maniana".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Sergio Angelo on his way back from Moscow with the manuscript of Doctor Zivago,
stopped at my place and took in secret my novel too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
However, as long as I was in Poland I declined Pellegrini's offer to
publish and I guess, when I decided to stay quietly abroad he was not
interested. Or again maybe he saw no market for a novel of the Polish October
Revolution which faded quickly, especially if compared to the impact of the
real Hungarian Revolution.<br />
<br />
<strong>BH. </strong>That's interesting. May I know more? And what happened to
ESCAPE?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="PL" style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<b><i><u>l.s: </u></i></b>About Boris Pasternak,that’s another story. I met him
through Virgil, a Lithuanian whose surname I forgot,but there was much to it. I
could not help him. But to answer your question about my book,,, that book was
printed by the Polish publisher of renown, in London Boleslaw
Swiderski. It had very good reviews and sold perhaps a hundred copies in Australia
and fifty in England.</span><span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<br />
<strong>BH: </strong>Thank you very much, and I hope to finish our interview
when we meet the next time.</span><br />
<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> * Mr Szymanski insists on lower case letters in his name and in "wspolczesnosc"</span></span><br />
<span lang="PL" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="PL" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">________________________________________________</span>
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjYSiCftX1WxNiQkjelijn_77BO5yoPmIjRxU-yR7wM7cS1858RJ6vo3OJQAhitItiqp1HxesloWlNnJe03j287qK1kWoPOTvBQuWZVUJtQiTXGsWUYLEbPzTKbXgYa1ypKRhk5hrxMMFA/s1600/Bozena+Helena+Mazur-Nowak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjYSiCftX1WxNiQkjelijn_77BO5yoPmIjRxU-yR7wM7cS1858RJ6vo3OJQAhitItiqp1HxesloWlNnJe03j287qK1kWoPOTvBQuWZVUJtQiTXGsWUYLEbPzTKbXgYa1ypKRhk5hrxMMFA/s1600/Bozena+Helena+Mazur-Nowak.jpg" height="320" width="255" /></a><br /><br />
</span><br />
<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak has lived in the UK since 2004. She is a member of The Poetry Society of London, International English Association (IPPA) based in London, Union of Polish Writers Abroad based in London, Polish Authors' Association Branch II in Warsaw (Poland), Academy of American Poets (USA).</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Verses authored and translated by herself into English, published in the U.S. Canada, India, Australia, Africa and the UK. They were read on Australian Radio. She was included in the poet issue of<i> New Mirage Journal</i> (USA). Her work has been presented in <i>Writing the Polish Diaspora</i> (USA), The <i>Australia Times Poetry Magazine</i>, <i>ken*again</i>, <i>Mad Swirl</i>.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">The poet has released three volumes of poetry in Polish : "<strong>on the banks of the river called life</strong>" in 2011, "<strong>ticket to the Happiness station</strong>" in 2012, "<strong>on the departure bridge </strong>" in 2013, and two in English ; ''<strong>Whispered</strong>'' 2013 in UK and <strong>''Blue Longing'' </strong>2014 in Canada.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3USzXT8psXM&feature=youtu.be" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?<wbr></wbr>v=3USzXT8psXM&feature=youtu.be</a></span></span>
<br />
<span lang="PL" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
</div>
John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-84458300591132067632014-10-01T12:31:00.000-07:002014-10-01T12:33:09.826-07:00Polish Poet Wins Fifth Annual Harriss Poetry Prize<img src="http://www.citylitproject.org/citylitproject/uploads/Image/CityLit_Festival/CLF_2014/Kosk-Kosicka-Sepia.jpg" /><br />
<br />
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Danuta
E. Kosk-Kosicka was named winner of CityLit Press's fifth annual Harriss Poetry
Prize for her chapbook manuscript "Oblige the Light."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Born
and raised in Poland, Kosk-Kosicka is a scientist, bilingual poet, writer,
poetry translator, photographer, and co-editor of the literary journal</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Loch Raven Review</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her
poems have appeared in the U.S.A., Ireland, Sweden, and Poland in numerous
literary journals and anthologies, including</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">The Baltimore Review</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">, <i>Beltway Poetry Review</i>, <i>Ellipsis:
Literature and Art</i>, <i>Inner Art Journal</i>, <i>International
Poetry Review</i>, <i>Little Patuxent Review</i>, <i>Mobius</i>, <i>Passager</i>, <i>Pirene's
Fountain</i>, <i>Pivot</i>, <i>Rufous Salon</i>, <i>Spillway</i>, <i>Theodate</i>, <i>Van
Gogh's Ear</i>, <i>Akcent</i>, as well as <i>Stranger at Home:
Anthology of American Poetry with an Accent</i>, <i>Thy Mother's Glass</i>,
and <i>Weavings 2000: Maryland Millennia/Anthology</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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. </span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She is the translator for two
bilingual books of poems by Lidia Kosk: </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <i><span style="background: white;">niedosyt/ reshapings</span></i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> and <i>Slodka woda, slona woda/Sweet Water, Salt Water</i>, the latter of which she has also edited. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Here
is one of the poems from this prize-winning collection:</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">In the Background the Waltz from <i>Doctor Zhivago</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br />
In a movie scene a train<br />
Like a toy—in whose hands?—<br />
Runs on
a white plain, sways,<br />
Jerks on the tracks<br />
Pursued
by a plumed snake.<br />
<br />
Where, where, where, where, where, where<br />
A land
rolled out for play—<br />
Who, who, who, who, who, who…<br />
<br />
The ones who packed themselves<br />
Fifty to a freight car with a choking stove<br />
May
have had enough force<br />
To thrust through the thick pane<br />
Of the dry frozen universe<br />
And see
yellow flowers above<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"> The
blades of grass.<br />
<br />
The unlucky ones in the strangling<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Arms of the army with
red stars<br />
Had no
chance—packed in freight cars<br />
Thrown in the hollows<br />
In the Katyń forest.<br />
Clots on their bulleted heads,<br />
Tied hands, blindfolded words<br />
Thaw in the spring<br />
To
freeze again<br />
Over and over<br />
To not
forget.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Where, where, where,
who, who, who</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">
Scatters
dead flowers, turns<br />
Earth into a crippled toy planet... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">First appeared in </span><i style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">International
Poetry Review</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">To read more of Danuta’s
work here at <i>Writing the Polish Diaspora</i>, 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><a href="http://writingpolishdiaspora.blogspot.com/2012/07/danuta-e-kosk-kosicka-poet-and.html">Writing the PolishDiaspora: Danuta Kosk-Kosicka.</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-28799891705836201692014-08-21T11:52:00.000-07:002014-08-21T11:52:46.883-07:00Laura Ulewicz: Polish American PoetRecently, 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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<img alt="Laura Ulewicz - Image - by Erica Goss - Awkword Paper Cut" src="http://www.awkwordpapercut.com/uploads/4/3/3/6/4336269/7860321.jpg?249" /><br />
<br />
(drawing of Laura Ulewicz by Erica Goss)<br />
<br />
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“To
Laura Ulewicz, a kind of dragon”</span></i></b><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> - </span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dedicatio</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">n, Views of Jeopardy </span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">by Jack Gilbert<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">W</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">hen
the poet <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laura_Ulewicz" title=""><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Laura Ulewicz</span></a> 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.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">1.</span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<b><br />
These flowers I grow<br />
<br />
You call them
old-fashioned.<br />
<br />
I never liked them as
a child<br />
<br />
They were so common.<br />
<br />
Now they stand for
something –<br />
<br />
What they lasted
through –<br />
<br />
Now they are rare.</b><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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, <i>Views of Jeopardy</i>, 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<b>2.</b><br />
<br />
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.”)<br />
<br />
As a result, her list of publications is smaller than it should be
– just one book of poems, <i>The Inheritance</i>, came out in 1967.
Her poems appeared in a variety of poetry journals, including <i>Genesis
West, Gargoyle, Massachusetts Review, </i>and<i> Poetry Review</i> (UK),
as well as the anthologies <i>A Different Beat, A Gallery of Women</i> and <i>One-Eighty-Five</i>.
Some of her poems were featured in a series of broadsides displayed throughout
the Bay Area in the 1960s.<br />
<br />
Richard Peabody’s <i>A Different Beat</i> 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.<br />
<br />
Many of the poems collected in <i>A Different Beat</i> start
with images of the natural world, evoking an almost hallucinatory quality as in
this stanza from “Letter Three:”<br />
<br />
<b> Stand where you
will and think of the whales:<br />
<br />
How they’ll not come
ambling the Umbrian hills<br />
<br />
or smile in your window,
or nibble your grape leaves;<br />
<br />
but tunneling where
they must to make their waves<br />
<br />
and break their waves
to patterns of grape leaves,<br />
<br />
they will evade you,
as the sea evades you.</b><br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<b> When your
last whale has died, you’ll still find left<br />
<br />
this fierce
deliberate sun which grows – from which<br />
<br />
there is no
ark, or no ark suitable –<br />
<br />
till sun on
the land and on the ocean, sun,<br />
<br />
each summer
day is a day of intolerant judgment.</b><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>Howl</i>) – one elevated by the Beat movement
and the other destroyed by it – represent the extremes of experience that Laura
was so adept at capturing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>3.</b><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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, untidy<i>potager</i>.
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Laura wrote the following as an accompaniment for a painting
displayed in a Locke art show:</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <br />
Somehow I have
not spoken,<br />
<br />
really, of the river<br />
<br />
so big, so obvious<br />
<br />
to our lives.
Surely,<br />
<br />
it works itself
around<br />
<br />
all our words<br />
<br />
and moistens them.</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 6.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Drawing of Ulewicz by Erica Goss<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: #F9F9F9; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">- See more at:
http://www.awkwordpapercut.com/laura-ulewicz-by-erica-goss.html#sthash.IJVaFIIC.dpuf</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-32225166502773173772014-07-28T11:49:00.000-07:002014-07-28T11:53:26.787-07:00SLICING THE BREAD by Maja Trochimczyk<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz4Hh-uugIx_5p6clQ6JAikhyEY0muLIeR2UWD25PmOcoNs1cwv5yIAslKNIc6iqgIyPl09i4mDvDdejSrYa0yZnk8CyHo2ShQ3ycsgsz7e18mxOmgaR53jvtcwJL_MAkgX-P-TZW9YTft/s400/CoverCollage4med.jpg" height="400" width="260" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt;">These poems in <i>Slicing the Bread: Children's Survival Manual in 25 Poems</i> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The
title poem “Slicing the Bread” is the best introduction to this work:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Slicing </span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">the
</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Bread<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Her
mother’s hunger. One huge pot of hot water <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">with
some chopped weeds –<i>komesa, lebioda</i>–<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">she
taught her to recognize their leaves,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">just in
case – plus a spoonful of flour <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">for
flavor. Lunch for twenty people <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">crammed
into a two-bedroom house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The
spring was the worst–flowers, birdsong,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">and
nothing to eat. You had to wait <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">for the
rye and potatoes to grow. The pantry <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">was
empty. She was hungry. Always hungry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">She ate
raw wheat sometimes. Too green,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The
kernels she chewed –still milky –made her sick. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Thirty
years after the war, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">her
mother stashed paper bags with sliced, dried bread <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">on top
shelves in her Warsaw kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Twenty,
thirty bags… enough food for a month.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Don’t ever throw any bread away</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">, her
mother said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Remember, war is hunger.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Every
week, her mother ate <i>dziad</i> soup – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">fit for
a beggar, made with crumbled wheat buns, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">stale
sourdough loaves, pieces of dark rye <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">soaked
in hot tea with honey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">She
liked it. She wanted to remember<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">its
taste. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">_____________________________</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">You can order your copy of <i>Slicing the Bread</i> on the Finishing Line Press website by clicking <a href="https://finishinglinepress.com/product_info.php?cPath=2&products_id=2149&osCsid=lohof739o1ok2mkp3qkr6hll32">here</a>.</span></div>
John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-9028832914644047702014-06-10T07:33:00.004-07:002014-06-10T08:02:47.305-07:00A Letter from Joanna KurowskaDear Friends and Readers:<br />
<br />
The spring is a fact! The weather treats us mild. I hope you have lots of energy for<br />
outdoor activities. Metaphorically, “outdoors” is not just the woods or lakeshore but also<br />
some much-needed FRESH AIR IN LANGUAGE! If you need a break from forms,<br />
commercials and the (typically bad) TV news, come to poetry! It’s a different world, for<br />
real!<br />
<br />
READ POETRY, LISTEN TO IT, PONDER IT, LIVE IT!<br />
<br />
An event to recommend is THE POETRY PENTATHLON: NORTH SHORE EDITION at Highland<br />
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).<br />
<br />
And a few reminders…<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
How did I become a poet writing in my second language? I talk about it in my recent interview at <a href="http://www.cervenabarvapress.com/newsletter.htm#INTERVIEW1">Cervena Barva Press</a><br />
<br />John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-2587051735556959682014-01-22T08:44:00.000-08:002014-01-22T11:17:20.108-08:00Ron Paul Salutsky's Romeo Bones<img src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51gagPxYoUL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg" /><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.steeltoebooks.com/">Steel Toe Books</a> 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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lightning-Ashes-John-Guzlowski/dp/0974326453/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1390408946&sr=1-1&keywords=guzlowski">Lightning and Ashes</a>.)<br />
<br />
Last year, Steel Toe published a first book by a young Polish American poet, Ron Salutsky. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Here are a couple of Ron Salutsky's poems, the title poem "Romeo Bones" and "In Praise of Kool Filter Kings."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<b>ROMEO BONES<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="background: white;">
Allergies today are
puffed up<br />
with caterpillar bones, old loves<br />
and arbor tidings, pushed<br />
by a humid wind,<br />
moisture as fleeting as grief<br />
for the death of second cousin Emma,<br />
whom you used to play Lawn Darts<br />
with on sunny summer holidays<br />
when the family gathered<br />
and gawked at the grill, as they do<br />
now, talking of investments<br />
in appetite, the politics<br />
of meteorology, the state<br />
of affairs of beer, the<br />
demise of demise now<br />
that everything's okay.<br />
<i>It's not okay</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>you want to
say,<br />
and you do say, but you're<br />
the youngest so no one listens.<br />
Emma hears you and laughs<br />
through the smoke, slings<br />
a Lawn Dart so close<br />
to your feet your toes tingle<br />
with the expectation of pain<br />
and the utter desire<br />
for utter attention.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Romeo
Bones,<br />
Romeo Bones</i>, she says<br />
and you laugh but you have<br />
no idea why. Pretty soon,<br />
everyone's laughing and you don't<br />
know why, but you laugh,<br />
pretend to be in on the joke,<br />
in on the whole thing, the punch line<br />
missed, the world you're afraid<br />
might be getting away<br />
from you, the parents<br />
who might not be your own,<br />
the sky that might not really<br />
be blue, the blue that might<br />
not really be blue, the grassy<br />
rug that might one day be<br />
pulled out from under<br />
your tiny feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 8.35pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<strong><br /></strong></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>IN PRAISE OF KOOL FILTER KINGS</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">If the sea had skin <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">you could roll it up over Florida <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">like a condom, prevent what you only <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">in the comfort of others’ mishaps call <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">the spread of Florida. And what’s so wrong <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">with Florida, then? There’s none <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">more existential crisis than 6:30 pm in Florida, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">and you need not have driven there drunk <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">the night before, parked on the street <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">outside the Daytona Beach YMCA, rusty harmonica <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">on the dashboard and God knows what <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">looks like donut glaze on the jeans you cut <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">into jean shorts with a buck knife <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">just south of Valdosta. </span><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">We’ve come to the shore,</span></i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">by God, so we’ve conquered the shore,</span></i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">quoth you, for puking-on <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">is 51% of ownership in business-friendly <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Florida. The sea is not indifferent, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">but rather calms you roaring in your ear. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">There’s still half a tank of gas <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">and an unopened pack of menthols <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">you must have bought at a Gate <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">in St. Cloud, now what? You gave <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">a homeless girl four menthols <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">and a five-spot and she swore<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">she’d spend it on bean burritos <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">and she didn’t even cheapen the deal <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">by proffering a blowjob. The liquor stores <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">here never close because it’s the beach <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">and you know by the way your eyeballs burn <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">the sun will come up soon and you feel you should
pray<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">but you don’t know what to pray to <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">and a blue crane perched on the arm<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">of a lifeguard chair somehow reminds you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 8.35pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">there’s love in the world. Now what?</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">_______________________________</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Romeo Bones</b> is available from <a href="http://www.steeltoebooks.com/books/82-romeo-bones.html">Steel Toe Books</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Romeo-Bones-Ron-Paul-Salutsky/dp/0982416970">Amazon</a>. Just click on either.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">You can find out more about Ron Salutsky at his website. Just click <a href="http://www.salutsky.com/">here</a>.</span></div>
<br />
<br />John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6142857971379251277.post-40900374636749203462013-12-10T11:32:00.000-08:002013-12-10T11:32:17.999-08:00Polish American Historical Association Conference, Jan 2014<div class="MsoPlainText">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt;">Polish American
Historical Association to Examine Critical Issues in the Past and Present of
Polish Immigrant Communities</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">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 <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Los
Angeles, December 10, 2013</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> – 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A special book forum will be dedicated
to Mieczysław B.B. Biskupski’s <i>The United
States and the Rebirth of Poland, 1914–18 </i>(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 <i>Pola Negri: Life
is a Dream in Cinema </i>held on Saturday,
January 4, 2014: 5:30 PM Marriott Wardman Park, Jefferson Room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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: </span><a href="http://www.polishamericanstudies.org/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">www.polishamericanstudies.org</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">About
PAHA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">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, <i>Polish American Studies</i>
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 <i>Polish American Encyclopedia,</i> published
by McFarland and edited by Prof. James Pula. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">More
information:<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Dr.
Maja Trochimczyk, Ph.D.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Online
Communications Director <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">&
PAHA News editor<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">PAHANews.blogspot.com<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.polishamericanstudies.org/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">www.polishamericanstudies.org</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">818
384 8944<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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John Guzlowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13052735138993479204noreply@blogger.com0