Nad Baltykiem (By the Baltic) by Maria Wollenberg-Kluza, oil/canvas
The Fall 2024 issue of the Poetry Letter presents prize-winning poems from seven Monthly Contests of 2024, selected by the Monthly Contest Judge, Alice Pero - in Part I, here. Two book reviews by Michael Escoubas include extensive poetry quotations which make the reviews even more enjoyable, so we do not only learn what Michael thinks of the poems by Renee Butner and Tom Moran, but also can get to know this poetry ourselves.
In addition, I present here two poems from my book The Rainy Bread, in original English with Polish translations, that were read at a conference “Generations Remember” organized by the Kresy Siberia Foundation and the Sybir Memorial Museum in Białystok, Poland on 19-20 September 2024. For this conference, I selected 12 poems from my book The Rainy Bread: More Poems from Exile, commemorating the suffering and resilience of my family members who lived in Poland’s eastern territories and were imprisoned, exiled to Siberia or deported to the Polish People’s Republic during and after WWII. Their estates and farms are now parts of collective farms in Belarus, formerly in Soviet Union. They were lucky to survive and, of course, did not receive any reparations... Indeed, my maternal great aunts were hardly alone in being dispossessed and displaced by the Empire next door.... The Soviet Union annexed 48% of Poland’s lands after WWII and about 3.5 million Poles were deported, plus about one million killed. The poems were read in English while the translations appeared on the screen. Deszczowy Chleb is a new 40-poem book with Polish translations of selected verse from The Rainy Bread. Now, that the Apocalyptic "Horse of War" has returned to this world with vengeance, it is good to remember the hunger, destitution, cold, and sorrow of deportees who lost a part of their souls with their beloved homes.
~ Maja Trochimczyk, CSPS President
MICHAEL ESCOUBAS REVIEWS HUNTING FOR SHARK'S TEETH
BY RENEE BUTNER
Hunting for Shark’s Teeth—Poems by Renee Butner.
36 Poems ~ 45 pages. Lulu Press. ISBN #: 978-1-312-48589-1
Seamus Heaney, (1939-2013), a leading light in the world of poetry, had this to say about poets and their craft: “A poet is someone who feels, and who expresses her feelings through words. This may sound easy, but it isn’t.”
This quote came to mind during my journey through Hunting for Shark’s Teeth—Poems, by Renee Butner. I asked myself, “Why hasn’t this poet been on my radar screen before now?” Already an accomplished writer, Renee Butner’s work has appeared in a variety of fine journals. Sharks Teeth displays these poems plus new poems that highlight her talent.
The book is organized into four untitled sections: I. 11 poems; II. 8 poems; III. 8 poems; and IV. 9 poems. Butner opens each section with a modern haiku, a haiku bookends the work.
Butner’s title speaks to me on different levels: the first is “sea-level.” The opening 11 poems take me specifically to the beach. My nostrils breathe salty air; aromas, sights, and sea-textures abound. On another level, I read Butner’s poems at the level of “hunting.” The title is catchy. But there is more. As poets we are constantly searching for life; we want to unearth life, we invest ourselves in life in and through our words. This is the work of poets.
At Sea-level. The poet “had me from hello,” with “Ocean Pier”:
She meanders down a
twilight street;
digests the sweet, thick air.
Cicadas and crickets sing their
summer evening lullabies.
The heady thrill of salt melds
with balmy trade wind currents.
As they play a final game of tag
children’s voices hover
alongside he eternal background
reverberation of the sea.
She comes upon a
weathered pier projecting
over the bruising water . . .
a welcome provider of respite in the dusk.
The air around Butner’s twilight pier is “thick and sweet.” Crickets and cicadas sing, I hear the sea’s “reverberations” rattling the pier. She puts me in the action. She does more than experience the air; she “digests” the air. The poet is fully ensconced in her surroundings, satisfied, whole and complete. Butner’s work shows skill with poetic devices: alliteration, consonance, internal rhyme, simile and metaphor abound. Her poems are predominantly free verse; without end-rhyme.
“Five Senses” imbibes “grains of sand” that stings, / a thousand needle prickles.” “Waves roar as they fold over / and crash against the shore / then fizzle back out to sea.” Other titillating titles in this section include: “Dirty Sneakers,” “Glorious Moon,” “Lavender Skies,” and “Sea Glass,” none of which disappoint.
Let’s Go Hunting. Butner is never far from the sea, which I sense is her first love. However, her interests go beyond the sea as primary metaphor. For example, “bits of blue eggshell” capture her attention and result in the poet contemplating morbidity. Is the baby bird tragically dead or might the shell fragments indicate some “natural progression / hatching, downy feathers” of a young bird learning to fly? Shark’s tooth #1.
“Butter” is about` the poet’s self-perception. What lies beyond the “Buttery golden path” . . . “Does the aura surround me / Or has it fled / Into the bare branches / of the trees.” Shark’s tooth #2.
In “Daybreak Thunderstorm” Butner awakens to “rain gushing down the drainpipe / near my head / pounding on the roof / in sheets.” The eerie light flashings and thunderclaps frighten her puppy, but “her senses relish this abrupt awakening.” Shark’s tooth #3. Finally, “Jazz Notes” circles me back to Seamus Heaney’s dictum: “A poet is someone who feels, and who expresses her feelings through words. This may sound easy, but it isn’t.”
After a hard day, art, in the form of jazz captures a “mood,” brings the poet to herself within herself . . . where
A lone horn sings out
Edgy and soulful
Leading the session several
Golden shimmering moments
before backing off
To allow a bebop
walking bass line solo
Notes wrap around one another
Entwined in a dance
for the auditory sense
Jazz beat lines up with heartbeat
I relinquish myself to
the new pulse
This poem, akin to unearthing that coveted shark’s tooth in the sand, the quest for something deeper, sparkles as she revolves its sharp edges in her fingers.
MICHAEL ESCOUBAS REVIEWS SILENT MARSHES BY TOM MORAN
Silent Marshes by Tom Moran 24 Poems ~ 36 pages Cyberwit.net ISBN #: 978-81-19654-67
For a moment Tom’s title, Silent Marshes, had me fooled. The title took me back to my Cajun roots in south Louisiana. There, “marsh” or “swamp” conjured tales of 15-foot alligators, a legendary swamp creature named “Monster Rougarou,” snakes, frogs, pirogues being poled down the bayou, cypress trees, hanging moss, and golden sunrises. These notions were soon disabused by the author. Tom was born and raised in the south side of Chicago, in a tough neighborhood. Tom’s “marsh” resembles gray, pock-marked concrete and families which cling to traditional values: hard work, church-going and loyalty. Marsh also means that invisible, often silent, space where one lives and navigates life’s challenges.
My goal in this review is to highlight the heart of a mature poet whose latest collection gives voice to similar silent marshes many face in life.
“Dialogue with a Muse” is about Tom’s feelings as he prepares to attend the prestigious Iowa Summer Writing Festival: “I’m inspired on the way. / Open up and feel again. / You pave over yourself / to hustle a buck. // What if the well goes dry? / Dig deeper. // How will I know if I’m any good? / A lump in your throat / before you speak.” Who among us hasn’t felt a twinge of self-doubt before we read our work?
“Departure” returned me to my own mother’s bedside as her life slowly ebbed away . . . his airplane lifting off, is a poignant example of Tom’s silent marsh theme:
The heart monitor alarm beeps.
Skycaps rush in to
check her luggage.
Her flight is boarding.
She passes, chalk white.
White as the sheet
they cover her with.
White as the page
I write on,
white as the vapor trail
of her jet
than angles upward.
White as the spaces
in my life
when she would leave home
for months at a time.
The poet’s flight metaphor is perfect. By my count, five variations of “white” coalesce as Tom processes his loss. With a touch of irony he recalls times . . . “when she would leave home / for months at a time.”
Stylistically, Moran writes a relatively short line. This suits him. I was taught to use short steps when walking through wetlands, lest I sink into uncertain terrain. Within his lines, the poet treads carefully, searching for the right words to guide his next steps.
Speaking of steps, “Hitchhiker,” harmonizes both style and theme:
I pierce pinholes
in a piece
of black construction paper.
Hold the paper up
to the sunshine
because as a child,
I was told
that the stars
at night
is light
shining through from Heaven.
I pull away the paper,
smile at
the newness
of love
on my face.
I live
on the cusp
of two worlds,
one spiritual,
one Earth bound;
a hitchhiker
in the rain
who can’t run,
can’t hide,
and can’t make
it stop raining.
A soul in
a concrete world,
waiting on the day
I cut loose,
fly free.
Just as “Hitchhiker” reveals the poet’s journey down two roads “one spiritual / one earthbound,” he invites me to join him through the silent marshes of my life. “Vacancy” opens the heart of a youth who, “would play / in the bare spot / where her (his mother’s) car / should have been parked . . . a room vacant / in my heart / just in case / she returns.”
“Thanksgiving” captures the secret ruminations of a small boy. The poem opens a book of memories about how Tom’s father took him to a turkey farm to “pick one out.” Moments later, the turkey’s neck was snapped off, the bird, now in in a white box slides down a chute ready for the ride home. The poet wonders:
how will I
find my place
in this cement world,
where something
once alive is
butchered, boxed, and
laying in a back seat.
Silent Marshes is a thin volume consisting of twenty-four poems. Yet, it is pregnant with one man’s studied wisdom about life. That study is a journey ever-fresh, ever-renewing itself in truth. Gift yourself, order your copy today.
Etiuda (An Etude) by
Maria Wollenberg-Kluza, oil on canvas.
TWO POEMS FROM THE RAINY BREAD BY MAJA TROCHIMCZYK
The Rainy Bread: More Poems from Exile is an expanded version of a poetry collection first published in 2016 and honored with the Creative Arts Prize by the Polish American Historical Association. The book includes 63 poems about forgotten stories of Poles living under the Soviet and German occupations during WWII, especially in the Eastern Borderlands of Kresy. They were killed, deported, imprisoned, or oppressed after the invasion of Poland by Germany on September 1, 1939 and by the Soviet Union on September 17, 1939. Some of these brief portraits capture the trauma and resilience, ordeals and miraculous survival stories of the author’s family, typical of Polish civilians. These fictionalized memories are coupled with depictions of survival of other Poles deported to Siberia, the Arctic Circle, or Kazakhstan; those left the Soviet Union with the Second Corps of the Polish Army under the command of General Władysław Anders; those who were transported to refugee camps in India or Africa; and ended up in Argentina, Canada, Australia or the U.S. The Polish version of 2024 includes 40 poems.
https://moonrisepress.blogspot.com/2024/08/deszczowy-chleb-polish-version-of-40.html
Sisters Maria and Jadwiga Wasiuk, later Wajszczuk and Hordziejewska.
≡ ASTERS ≡
~ for my Great Aunt, Jadwiga Hordziejewska, neé Wasiuk
(1910-1997)
Her mother’s aunt, Ciocia Jadzia works in a kiosk in Oliwa
selling papers and razor blades in a ruined city
of charcoal buildings and five-year plans
She hides the best blades for her faithful clients
in the kiosk on the way to the Cathedral
where angels with puffy wooden cheeks
triumphantly blow their golden trumpets
walls and benches shake with the majesty of Bach
the gold-starred ceiling shimmers
in summer evening cold
The music of the seaside vacation heals the grey hours
of the girl, sitting in the kiosk, selling matches and tickets
after Ciocia Jadzia goes home to cook dinner
for her silent husband, drunk artist son
She works — Uncle Dominik, a proud nobleman
in a top hat and a black Sunday coat
walks through Oliwa’s parks
with his last, prize-winning Holstein cow
He grieves the loss of his estates — the life he had had
before that fateful train ride from the East
He still sees the red-roofed manor with a white porch
bronze oak leaves scattered on the gravel path
silver gray of Lake Świteź
golden rye fields before the harvest
He walks home to rusty bricks pocked by bullet holes,
smoke-dark hallways, and a burst of color
in the courtyard where asters tremble
in last evening breeze —
a bouquet of fallen stars
~ Dla Ciotecznej Babci Jadwigi Hordziejewskiej z.d. Wasiuk
Ciocia Jadzia mojej Mamy ma kiosk w Oliwie.
Sprzedaje gazety i żyletki w zrujnowanym mieście
pełnym osmalonych budynków i planów pięcioletnich.
Chowa najlepsze ostrza pod ladą dla wiernych
klientów w kiosku przy drodze do katedry.
Tam drewniane aniołki z wydętymi policzkami
triumfalnie grają na złocistych trąbkach.
Tam mury i ławy trzęsą się w majestacie
organów Bacha a złote gwiazdy na suficie
migoczą w chłodnym powietrzu wieczoru.
Muzyka to cud szarych godzin wakacji
nad morzem, straconych godzin
dziewczynki w kiosku, sprzedającej
zapałki i bilety, gdy Ciocia Jadzia
jest w domu i gotuje kolację dla milczka-męża,
pijanego syna-artysty z Bożej łaski.
Ona pracuje – a wuj Dominik, dumny szlachcic
w cylindrze i niedzielnym tużurku spaceruje
po parkach Oliwy z ostatnią, medalową krową
rasy Holstein. Wuj w milczeniu ubolewa
nad utratą włości – i życia jakie pędził
przed tragiczną jazdą pociągiem ze wschodu.
Stoi mu przed oczami czerwony dach dworu,
biały ganek, brązowe liście dębu rozsypane
na żwirze podjazdu, głęboka woda Świtezi,
srebrne pola nieskoszonego żyta w środku lata.
Wraca do mieszkania, do rdzawych cegieł
pokrytych ospą dziur od kul, przez korytarz
osmalony dymem. Czeka go wybuch koloru
w podwórku – astry tańczące na wietrze —
bukiet upadłych gwiazd
Letters of Father Feliks Wajszczuk (brother of Stanisław Wajszczuk, Maja Trochimczyk’s grandfather) from NAZI German camp for the clergy in Dachau to his mother in German-occupied Poland. One of the letters included his request for food to be sent in packages: slices of dark rye bread saturated with lard and individually wrapped. Nutritious, high-calory, and too ugly to be stolen. Helping the resistance since the beginning of the war, Feliks Wajszczuk was arrested after being denounced by a Polish traitor. He survived five years of incarceration, while being a subject of cruel and illegal “medical” experiments on lung capacity. Too ill to return to his parish after the war, he retired to a monastery in France. Private collection of Barbara Miszta, Poland.
≡ THE RAINY BREAD ≡~ for Grandma Nina and Grandma Maria,because they baked delicious bread
Even if it softened, it fell into the mud
you need to rinse the slice. When it dries out —
it can be eaten.
And this round, fragrant loaf,
which Grandma baked with sourdough?
One bread loaf for a week — it was the best
with cream and sugar crystals.
And this moist, whole-rye bread baked with honey?
Delicious with butter and — more honey.
After each bite, take a sip of cold milk.
And the war bread, made from leftover, dirty flour?
Worms removed through a sieve. With bran,
sawdust — even a pebble can be found
among grains of sand. But, there it is.
Finally, the bread from the parcels sent
to Father Feliks, Mom’s uncle in Dachau.
It’s so ugly — no one would steal it.
Whole rye flour, thick slices saturated with lard —
Today we know: microelements and calories,
A guarantee of surviving five years of torture.
Give us today our daily bread —
the daily bread —
the rainy bread —
the bread of life —
bread
≡ DESZCZOWY CHLEB ≡
~ dla Babci Niny i Babci Marii, bo piekły pyszny chleb
Nawet jeśli rozmiękł, upadł w błoto
trzeba kromkę wypłukać. Jak wyschnie —
da się zjeść.
A ten okrągły, pachnący bochenek,
który Babcia upiekła na zakwasie?
Jeden chleb na tydzień — był najlepszy
ze śmietaną i kryształkami cukru.
A ten prawie wilgotny, razowy na miodzie?
Przepyszny z masłem i miodem — właśnie.
Po każdym kęsie, łyk zimnego mleka.
A ten wojenny, z resztek brudnej mąki?
Robaki odsiane przez sito. Z otrębami,
trocinami – nawet kamyk się trafi
wśród ziaren piasku. Jednak jest.
Wreszcie ten chleb z paczek wysłanych
do Ojca Feliksa, Wuja Mamy, do Dachau.
Szpetny — więc go nikt nie ukradł.
Z pełnej żytniej mąki, grube pajdy
nasycone smalcem — dziś wiemy:
mikroelementy i kalorie, gwarancja
przeżycia pięciu lat tortur.
Chleba naszego powszedniego daj nam dzisiaj —
Deszczowy chleb —
codzienny chleb —
chleb życia —
chleb
