Showing posts with label Andrzej Kołodziej. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Andrzej Kołodziej. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 20, 2026

CSPS Poetry Letter No. 4 of 2025 Part II - Brady Rhoades, Anna Maria Mickiewicz and reviews of Maung Sein Win, and Andrea Potos


Andrzej Kolodziej, "Concert on the Beach" oil on canvas.

The first part of Poetry Letter No.  of 2025 featured the poetry of Deborah P Kolodji and poems about music. Two more poems are reprinted here, with two boo reviews and an appreciation of poet Anna Maria Mickiewicz, celebrating 40th anniversary of her poetic debut.

 https://www.californiastatepoetrysociety.com/2026/01/csps-poetry-letter-no-4-of-2025-part-i.html

TWO POEMS BY BRADY RHOADES

No Other Way


The old problem: You’re not prepared to die, you can’t sleep, you’re anchored here.

Walking helps. You seem to be of some importance outdoors.

A village of leaves riots; you’re roundly condemned by the birds.

Ponzi schemes in back rooms. Exotic, symbolic shadows.

These are the nights you think of the sorrowful Jesus.

At Gethsemane, he fell on his face. Father, let this cup pass from me.

No, no, no other way. You must be sacrificed.

Forget pride. Weep. Forget long life. Learn to be kind.

Brady Rhoades

The Antioch Review, Spring 2006


A Million Dice


All Ray did was toss a dead swift away and go back
to moving stones on his two acres in Brea, California.

When he was whacked by a hawk, it was a debt to the back
of the head. The hawk flew off, whomp whomp whomp

A wind came from the cemetery like cold fingers
through his hair. His neighbor, Anas, asked, Cat better?

Due west, the grunion would run at 10 p.m.,
millions of dice rolled on the shores of Bolsa Chica State Beach.

When Ray, a chemist and pancake connoisseur,
tends to his land these days, he carries a rake.

He named the hawk Gino. The hawk is not Gino.
The hawk is not a hawk, even. The fish pouring into the sea

are not fish, the dice are auctioneers, the auctioneers
are crooked, like space, and time’s high on kush.

Come night, when the moon blues Coyote Hill
and all the causes and effects arrive in the sky in their jewels,

and silence, the very first language, eavesdrops on everyone,
a congress of blood in the floored bird campaigns,

and finally, as footnote, Ray is not Ray.

Brady Rhoades, Fullerton, California

Cider Press Review, Spring 2024


MICHAEL ESCOUBAS REVIEWS 

LIN LAE LAE LA: SELECTED POEMS BY MAUNG SEIN WIN

Lin Lae Lae La: Selected Poems by Maung Sein Win. Translated by Ei Ei Tin and James Green. 60 Poems in English/Burmese, 147 pages. Myanmar Refugee Education Fund.

Whether in times of peace or in times of war, the world turns to poets for clarity and truth. Truth and clarity are hallmarks of Lin Lae Lae La: Selected Poems by Maung Sein Win. Expertly co-translated by Ei Ei Tin and James Green, their translations strike a balance between two extremes: a literal, word-for-word rendering in the writer’s original language or one that attempts to capture, in English. the collection’s spirit. The completed work features the original language by Maung Sein Win juxtaposed with the co-translated English version. 

The people living in Myanmar (formerly Burma) have known only sporadic periods of peace since the end of World War II. Political upheaval is the common denominator addressed by Maung Sein Win. The poet’s major thematic categories include Loss and Longing, Politics of War, and Hope for Better Days. As an America writer, I have never had to deal with the scourge of war in my homeland. This certainly places me at a disadvantage in reviewing a collection that is devoted to the trauma of destroyed villages, slaughtered loved ones, and a political military establishment tailored to get and retain power.

With that said, what I can do is fix within my soul, Maung Sein Win’s poems which take me to these villages, to those who mourn their loved ones, and who live everyday longing for a new day that waits just beyond the horizon. Maung Sein Win, penname Padigone, uses metaphor effectively. “A Tree That Cannot Die” stands for that which lingers long in the lives of oppressed people:

Memories will not be refused

nor can they be killed.

Like a seed once planted

that grows into a tree

and bears the fruit

that grows in its own time

they do not die.

Such depth of thought reveals the resolve of Myanmar’s people. In the words of the New Testament writer St. Paul, [we are] “known, yet regarded as unknown; dying, and yet we live on; beaten, and yet not killed; sorrowful yet always rejoicing; poor yet possessing everything.”* 

This excerpt from “Lamentation” reveals the mountain of corruption the people face: A spirit that lives in the heart should be a government’s source of justice. Of peace.

Rule of law we cannot see but feel 

is perfection.

When there is no law,

when there is no justice,

nor peace, nor shelter in forests,

where despair stifles hope.

and corruption is common as torture in jails,

this is the land of poverty, of ruin.

I am moved by the poet’s emphasis on the spiritual dimension of life. His argument is not about gaining material things. It is not about government providing physical sustenance. It is about what compassionate rule should look like . . . what it should emphasize: it is about that which resides inside those who are governed . . . A spirit that lives in the heart. The peace within is the only true and lasting peace. “Lamentation” continues:

​My dear Ayeyarwaddy,

we may covet the fortune of others,

the justice in other lands,

but here is our zatipunya.

Here the soil is our flesh, the trees our bones.

We yearn to walk again in the moonlight

on a pathway lined by Margosa trees.

We mourn & help; yes, we mourn.

In the spirit of “zatipunya,” which means attachment to and commitment to their homeland, Maung Sein Win, marries country and people in an unbreakable bond of intimacy. The poem “Aung San” pays tribute to the Father of the Nation, (13 February 1915 – 19 July 1947), whose spirit lives on despite that leader’s brutal assassination:

For an instant it rained
and the heat of summer faded away.


One tree stands alone,
yet the whole forest is touched by its fragments.

The moon shining over the whole nation
had only a moment to brighten the land.

Though he’s no longer here,
he remains present.

Though he speaks no more,
his voice is heard.

He does not age, nor does he suffer.
He lives in the hearts
of his people.

Maung Sein Win instinctively knows that a nation’s heroes, their personalities, and values forms a foundation upon which to build the future. Aung San’s purity of heart, clarity of political thought, and love of independence is heard even as it emanates from the grave.

Something history teaches is that persecuted people never lose their fervor that things will change . . . that things will get better . . . that a new day is waiting to emerge. As I noted above Maung Sein Win’s major themes include Loss and Longing, Politics of War, and Hope for Better Days. The miniature “Love and Compassion,” for this reviewer, captures the essence of all three:

With love,

dare not in frenzied passion pluck

the fragrant jasmine from its stem.

And when compassion’s age is come,

dare not discard the withered bloom.

Its fragrance is not done.

The pathos of this collection has moved its reviewer. Though Myanmar is a nation far removed, geographically from America, its struggles and history yield valuable lessons even for us.

 * Cited from Second Corinthians 6.9-10.

— Michael Escoubas

MICHAEL ESCOUBAS REVIEWS 

THE PRESENCE OF ONE WORD BY ANDREA POTOS

The Presence of One Word by Andrea Potos, 57 Poems, 75 pages. Fernwood Press

As I was preparing to write this review, I had emerged from a rough patch in my life. A dear friend and I had exchanged words. Hurt was delivered on both sides. As I lay back in my office chair with Andrea Potos’s latest collection, in hand . . . I happened onto her tender poem entitled “When the Consolation of a Word Comes to You.” I reproduce it here simply to illustrate the gentle, healing power in The Presence of One Word:

Not detach, which sounds too much
about the retina, and this is not about the eye
but the heart and its gates—
unlatch and allow yourself to roam
beyond what is hurting you, further into the fields
and meadows—there, find a spot
to kneel down in the deep, fragrant grasses,
make a bed for your body where the summer
is still singing your name.

Ah! Yes! I could not have uttered a better prayer. A fountain of healing words tumbled from the page into my hurting heart. What came to me as a serendipitous gift, I offer as an extended metaphor to Andrea’s readers. This is what her collection is like. As Marge Piercy has observed: In The Presence of One Word, we find poems powerful in their well-crafted expression of love. Andrea Potos’s poems catch in the mind and shine there.” The relative shortness of the poems appealed to me. No poem is more than one page. Many are ten lines or less. The book’s design encouraged me to keep on turning, page to page, like eating chicken and dumplings . . . comfort food for the heart.

“Late Apology” speaks to real life. In the poem, Andrea apologizes to a “fat June bug / I scrunched under my small bare foot / on my way to the Ferris wheel.” This was fifty years ago. A late realization of a much bigger issue: The recognition that it is never too late to rethink things . . . to adjust an attitude and maybe even repent. “Daily Practice” leads the collection and mirrors what this poet (and many) actually do:

Some mornings all I do
is write down words—cistern,
tribal, cached—copying them
from sprawled pages of books
across my desk, words call out—
glimmerings, cursive, saffron,
heartwood—holding me in place
as if to say listen, you may need me
someday, I might offer you another way
toward beauty, or even beyond.

Did you notice the interlinear long “a” rhyme? “pages.” “place,” “say,” “may,” “someday,” and “way.” They occur gently, with ease, one barely notices. Good poets have their subtle tricks Andrea’s Greek heritage instilled an intense sense of family values and love. “Yaya’s Dresser” is a detailed tour of a small child’s fascination with her mother’s dresser which “reigned / over one half of a whole wall.” It featured curved, mahogany inlaid drawers that were so filled with ladies’ items that Andrea had to use all her strength just to heft them open. There were jewels, scented jars, and powders. All of which her “fingers would settle and sift through . . . and linger with, as long as she could.”

“Against Despair” is worth the price of the book. It is about Andrea’s indomitable grandparents. Her grandmother weeps at her kitchen sink mourning the death of her three-year-old son. Her grandfather lost all his savings in 1943, stayed in his room for weeks. Her sixteen-year-old mother “sat upstairs in the office becoming a grown-up / typing the daily specials.” The best part is the poet’s chronicle of what they all did to overcome despair. Don’t miss this one. Have some tissues nearby.

There is unique honesty in Andrea Potos’s work. She invites you into her life. And you want to go there. No fear, no one-upmanship. Just the delight in being there. I recommend with fondness poems about the passing of Andrea’s mother and father. These resonate with a daughter’s pathos. Poetry is her path to truth and healing. Within the power of words, even one word, lies poetry’s legacy. 

“When My Mother Called” is one of those “tell all” poems:

Always the same four words
to begin: Hi, it’s Mom honey,
as if I could ever not recognize
tenderness when it arrived,
the well of kindness in a voice.
And the conversations
that might follow: What did you think
of that article? How is the new coat working out?
Oh you looked so beautiful!
I am loving your book.
I need to get groceries today.
I’ve been thinking of when you were young, and all
those years with your father, how sorry I am
I was so distracted by sadness then.
What time are you picking me up  tomorrow?
I’ll be waiting at the living room window;
no, that’s okay, no need to get out of the car,
I’ll be there, looking for you honey, always.
Yes, The Presence of One Word will be there, waiting
as a gift to fortunate readers, always.

 — Michael Escoubas 

ABOUT THE ART: Andrzej Kołodziej (1944-2025) was a Polish American painter and poet, also known as Andrew Kolo. In 1981, He founded KrakArt Group of Polish-born Californian painters, that have held many joint exhibitions in the U.S. and in Poland. His own artwork, besides geometric California landscapes in vivid colors, frequently featured stylized puppet-like figures of acrobats, musicians, or sun-bathers on the golden beach. Among Andrzej’s writings, his play The Trial of Dali was the most popular, as it was performed in Australia, Poland and at the Hollywood Fringe Festival (2019). As a promoter of poetry, Andrzej organized the Krak Poetry Group that held bilingual readings in California and Poland. As one of two surviving Krak Poetry Group’s members. His Pacific Coast Highway graces the cover of California Quarterly vol. 51 no. 4 (Winter 2025) that also included his poem “The Eyes of Picasso” in English and Polish.

Anna Maria Mickiewicz

 THE WORLD OF ANNA – A SPEECH BY ANTHONY SMITH

A speech by British poet Anthony Smith during a special event hosted by the Polish Embassy in London and the Polish Social and Cultural Centre in London to celebrate the 40th Anniversary of Anna Maria Mickiewicz’s literary debut. She served as CSPS Annual Contest Judge in 2023.

I didn’t meet Anna as a poet but as a publisher, the publisher of Literary Waves which she founded. It was in 2022 at a weekend event of a film, talks and exhibitions celebrating the Polish diaspora and commemorating the Warsaw uprising all held at the ActOne cinema in Acton in London. It was organised by Joanna Dudzinska of Talking and Exploring. One of the talks was about Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński the young poet who was tragically killed in the first days of the Warsaw Uprising. I gave the talk but it was due to be given by a retired American Psychiatrist John Dietman who was a volunteer at the museum in Bentley Priory in Stanmore which had been the headquarters of the Strategic Air command. He was in the section that had the photos and records of the Polish and other East European pilots who had fought alongside the Brits and he always asked Polish visitors, especially the younger ones, if they had heard of Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński – so he asked Joanna, and she had, so he then recited a poem that he had written about him. John was lined up to speak but then unfortunately became ill at the last moment so Joanna asked me to do it. 

I needed translations of Baczyński’s ’s poems into English and online I found some published by Literary Waves and at the back of the booklet when it arrived was an email address so I contacted Anna Mickiewicz and asked if she would join us to read Krzysztof Kamil Baczyński’s poems in Polish while I did the English. It was then I was awoken to how poems can sound so differently in different languages.

When Anna read the poems there was a whole level of feeling and understanding that was missing from my reading. Sometimes just listening to poems in the original languages especially when presented by the actual poets can be a fascinating experience even when you don’t know the language!

So, finally, Anna the poet. And she is not just a poet – she is a publisher, an editor, a translator and has even worked as a foreign correspondent. But it is as a poet that she has received numerous awards. In the 1980s, she So, finally, Anna the poet. And she is not just a poet – she is a publisher, an editor, a translator and has even worked as a foreign correspondent. But it is as a poet that she has received numerous awards. In the 1980s, she was associated with the democratic opposition and was much later awarded the Cross of Freedom and Solidarity by the President of the Republic of Poland. Here is a short poem she wrote at that time, being careful not to say things too directly but still saying them. It is called “They were not the ones” and it is in the book Parallelisms.

they were not the ones

they were not the ones

who ordered the trees to be silent

who gagged the spring birds

they stand in the glow of the rising sun

worrying about what will happen

She left Poland in 1991, initially for California and then came to London. She is a member of English Pen, the Polish PEN Club, the Association of Polish Writers Abroad. She has had the honour of presenting her works in the British Parliament. Her poetry has been published in many languages, in poetry collections and anthologies in the United States, Great Britain, Australia, Canada, Poland, Mexico, Italy, Spain, Bulgaria, Hungary, El Salvador, India, Chile, Peru, China and France. She has served as chair of the Jury of the Literary Award in California, the Jury of the K. M. Anthru International Literary Award in India. At University College London she organised the European Literary Dialogues. Her book The Origin of the Planet was nominated for The Eric Hoffer Award (USA). 

She was honoured with the Gloria Artis medal for Merit to Culture by the Polish Ministry of Culture, and The Joseph Conrad Literary Prize (USA). In 2022 as part of the 3rd International Day of Polish Diaspora Education, organised by the Polish Academy of Social Sciences and Humanities in London, she was awarded the title of Polish Artist of the Year. So, an incredible list there. Now my reaction to her poems. I am not an academic so this is very personal. There are references and ideas in her poetry which I do not get and would have to have her explain but this is what I do get. I will be referring to a number of poems and quoting parts that will not appear in our later readings but that are in the book Parallelisms.

She is part of wherever she is, be it Poland, or London, or California, or France or a deserted seaside town on the south coast that has seen better days. The nature around her is alive, personified, with human emotions, at times the sun shouts, calling to us, at times it is sluggish; at other times the sea devours its golden drops, and the wind strokes the air and a cliff plunge like a diver into the sea. She takes in all around her, she sees “a jay dewy after a rainy morning.” Her observations follow each other quickly, with or without full stops, what brings them together are the people she writes about – her mother running to work “splashing autumn puddles,” lovers in the air above California or in Alexandra Park in Spring, an angel, a young man seemingly lost in London “selling carrots, tomatoes and strawberries.” and an old woman searching the bins “hanging on the metal lips of the container… keeping her balance by waggling her legs.

There is a gentleness, a kindness in what she has to say, in how she sees where she is and who and what she is describing. There is a gentleness in how she sees the world even as so much of it is dying, “even though it was not supposed to be like this” but there is always hope. I say always, that is not quite so, she is aware of the worst, she is aware of war and how our souls can be broken and how “those who did pass across, will not understand” and “those who did not pass across will not understand as well.” It’s not always happy images but there are many that are, that will strike you and maybe stay with you, all a part of how Anna sees her world. For me, she captures moments, in her own words “time collects the harvest of passing by seconds.”

— Anthony Smith

Anthony Smith is a retired secondary school English Language teacher. He grew up in East Anglia and after university did a couple of years voluntary work in Afghanistan in the early 70s. Most of his teaching time was spent in different schools in West London teaching English to secondary age refugees and newcomers to the country. He travelled around Afghanistan and then back overland to England and later, on retiring, made another more northerly overland journey from Uzbekistan back home.  He has written poetry collections Remembering and Stopping Places published in the United Kingdom. Many of the poems and the prose pieces come from those two journeys; some of the others have resulted from themes suggested by the local Acton Poets group. He tries to do a long walk once a week as well, health permitting.

Andrzej Kolodziej, "A Lake" - oil on canvas.





Monday, August 25, 2025

Contents of California Quarterly Vol. 51 No. 3, Autumn 2025, edited by Maja Trochimczyk

   

California Quarterly, Volume 51, Number 3, Autumn 2025

Cover Art: Pacific Coast Highway by Andrzej Kołodziej (Andy Kolo), oil on canvas.  


          

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Bakersfield  — W. C. Gosnell       —   —    — 7

Alice Keck Park — Paul Willis        —  —    —   8

High Above La Cienega  — Carlo DiOrio      — 9

Blueberry Parade  — Jenny McBride         — 9

Still Life in Red Smoke Light  — David Rosenheim — 10

My Rustic Italian Loaf   — Christine Leistner  —10

 Acreage  —  Sarp Sozdinler           —   —  —    11

Knives and Noodles   — Ellice Jeon       —  — 12

Couple  — Jianqing Zheng           —  —  —   13

Unbecoming   — Daisy Bassen         — —     — 14

Photograph  —  Rustin Larson     — —     — 15

reading    — Gregory Cecil         —       —     — 15

A Special Moment    — James Piatt      —       16

The House    —  Jenny McBride     —     —     16

Fossils and Footprints  —  Sarp Sozdinler     —     17

Dear Apology,  —    KM Kramer          —     —   —  18

Fragmentationv —    Carolyn Jabs      —     —   —   19 

Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle  —  W. C. Gosnell  — 20

Museum of Broken Hearts  — D. A. Hosek     —  20

In That Room, Again   — Peter J. Kahn         —   21

Ave Maria —    Livingston Rossmoor   —   —   —    22

Carmen Philomelaicum  — Eugenius II of Toledo  —    24

Carmen Philomelaicum     — Trans. D. A. Hosek  25

Listening to the Refrigerator    —  Kathryn Gessner Calkins 26

Made History —    Daisy Bassen   —     — 27

Spaghetti Western Villanelle  —Deborah H. Doolittle  —28

Jubilate Mammonæ    —   D. A. Hosek      — 29

Ти Знаєш Відповідь     —  Dmitry Blizniuk  — 30

You Know the Answer  — Trans. Sergey Gerasimov  —31

Survivor’s Guide  — R Haines    —   —  32

After Diana Der Hovanessian  —  Laura Walter  —34

Crow Dog  — William R. Ford Jr.   —  —   — 35

Manners  — Peter J. Kahn          —     —  — 35

Riding the Big Waves at   Rockaway   — David Rosenheim   —36

Early Morning Thoughts    —   Sarah Baker  — 36

Eclipse  —   KM Kramer      —    —      — 37

Free Man Minus Umbrella  — Ace Boggess  — 38

Wind  —  Deepak Dubey     —        —       — 39

What Is It About   —     Andrena Zawinski      —    40

 The Inconstant Moonv  —   V. P. Loggins      —    41

Paper Mansion  — Ellice Jeon        —    — 42

Dream  — Sarah Baker          —       —      — 43

Oczy Picassa   — Andrzej Kołodziej      —   — 44

Picasso’s Eyes  —  Tr. Maja Trochimczyk      —      45

Unexplained Journey   — W. C. Gosnell    — 46

The Cherry Treev      — Lenore Myers  — 46

A Tree Speaks:        — Angelika Quirk  — 48

Amidst the Pines   — Kieran Duffy   — —     —   49

Stream of Consciousness  — Carolyn Jabs  — 50

If I Were a Dronev  —Livingston Rossmoor  — 51

With the Eyes of a Falcon  — Angelika Quirk  —    52

One Moment:  — KM Kramer       —  —    —  53

Funambulist   — Carlo DiOrio       —   —    — 54

A Turquoise Story  — Maja Trochimczyk     — 55

Origami: Folded Light  — Shahrzad Taavoni  — 56

When the Prophet Comes Home  — Livingston Rossmoor  — 57

The Splendor of the Ever Gate  — William R. Ford Jr.  — 58

Born Wrong Century   — Michael J. Galko  — 58

Tycho’s Star    — Christine Candland     —   — 59


Contributors in Alphabetical Order      —   — 60

CSPS Contest Opportunities         —   —  —       60

CSPS Newsbriefs 2025, No. 3 by Maja Trochimczyk  — 63

Publishing Opportunities with CSPS  — — 65

2024 CSPS Donors, Patrons, and Membership — 66

Membership Form —   — —      — —      68  

 

Turquoise from Neyshanbur, Iran, The Turquoise Museum, ABQ, NM.

                                                     EDITOR’S NOTE

While visiting the Turquoise Museum in Albuquerque, NM, I found that my turquoise pendant I inherited from my Mom— perfectly smooth, more green than aqua—mostly likely came from a Nishapour mine in Iran. My Dad bought the jewel in Mosul, Iraq, when he, a Polish engineer, was overseeing the construction and operation of a power plant in the Kurdish city of Mosul, Iraq (yes, the same power plant that Americans reduced to rubble during their war of “Weapons of Mass Destruction”). Indeed, I watched the annihilation of his work on American TV; that plant had provided electricity and jobs to Mosul residents… I felt distressed and strangely relieved that my Dad did not live to see the ruins himself…

Turquoise from Neyshanbur, Iran, the Turquoise Museum.

Like my turquoise story, poets featured in the Autumn 2025 issue of the CQ capture a full range of emotions— joy, grief, melancholy, child-like wonder, and serenity found in nature and among people. We start our exploration of everyday delights in Bakersfield (Gosnell), then visit a park (Willis), eat freshly-baked bread (Leistner) and taste some noodles (Jeon). We watch children in real life (Bassen) and in old photographs (Larson). The passing of time attracts the poets’ attention (McBride, Sozdinler, Calkins). Some pry open their broken hearts (Hosek, Kahn), others mourn the dead (Bliziniuk, Haines, Ford, Kramer). Nature, as always, provides solace—via birdsong (Rossmoor), wind (Duvey), or the singsong of trees (Myers, Duffy, Quirk)… No sorrow is eternal: consolation may be found in dreams (Baker), flights of fancy (Rossmoor), humor (Doolittle), stars (Candland), being Irish (Walter), or “folded light” (Taavoni). 

Continuing the tradition initiated by Margaret Saine, this CQ includes three translations along with original poems in Latin (Eugenius II/Hosek), Polish (Kołodziej/Trochimczyk), and Ukrainian (Blizniuk/Gerasimov). It is perhaps the flavor of the times that five poets feel compelled to hide their gender in initials (D. A., KM, V. P., W. C., and R). This reminds me of a certain belief in reincarnation: timeless souls have both feminine and masculine aspects, but become embodied to go through their lessons in the school of the Earth, one trial after another: first a victim, then the abuser, first a woman, then a man…Thus, the circle turns and the spiral ascends, propelled by wisdom and love.   

Maja Trochimczyk, Editor

Los Angeles, California


SAMPLE POEMS

​A TURQUOISE STORY

 

 ~ after visiting the Turquoise Museum,

    Albuquerque, New Mexico

 

A rock. A white rock with a vein of blue.

An axe. A pickaxe. A shovel.

The bulging muscles of the miner,

covered in dust, stained with the earth.

Earth to earth. Dust to dust.

From earth, they dig out the vivid hues

Of aqua – tranquil sea and azure – summer sky.

 

They dig, they polish, they arrange

small pieces into sets. Here – a necklace,

there – a bracelet, belt buckle or brooch.

From chalk-white, to verdant, to ice-blue, to navy,

almost indigo – clear and smooth, or covered with

a spiderweb matrix of gold lines – fool’s gold,

mind you – or black, or white, or sienna.

 

No two pieces of turquoise are the same –

no two persons – unique and so different,

yet connected, with brilliant minds,

flexible bodies, compassionate hearts.

 

Like turquoise, we, too, are from the Earth.

We, too, carry the sky within.

(c) Maja Trochimczyk


ORIGAMI: FOLDED LIGHT


A quaint square paper—
reconstructed
into the limitless space of imagination.

Materializing
volumes of boxes.
Shaped like
curved ships
jagged stars
elongated vases
symmetrical flowers.

A magician puffs air—
a three-dimensional balloon
swells, stretching into existence.

A folded crane sleeps.
The journey of dreams
imbues it with celestial life.
Come dawn, the crane flies—
its skin’s creases shifting and shimmering
with blue-blossomed patterns.

 (c) Shahrzad Taavoni


WIND

Lying I am in a makeshift bed under the stars in the noise of daylight broad, watching the clouds scud across the sky blue and witnessing an emotion whole new in the air this day. I am dumb struck by its expression and wonder why just it breezed into a tapered envelope of gestures windy and fallen with sounds crunchy as if nothing but the solitary, windy, and Earth deserted is there to greet it. What are its intentions—bluff contempt or a reflection good? 

In the blatant silence, it howls in the trees, touching the cheeks of leaves and the spines of crooked branches, embracing their waists. Down the hill, it then blows across grassy meadow pastures, often boggy and near a river, to the village, past oak walkways. In a confused rush along the narrower, winding gravel walks shaded by lindens, it sent up dust clouds and crouched itself in the room's corners while bursting in through the window sashes. It fell for a moment silent as if waiting for a bit of a blow. It shrugged and took a deep breath, expelling air through lips pursed as if by a dreamy languor its whole being was pervaded. With a sigh of boredom in its steps and the heaviness of long-standing existential angst on its chest, it thereupon ran past the puddles, rustling through the low-lying hedge and fallen leaf debris and leaving a moisture-filled trail behind it. Then it blew past in a flurry of activity, fleeting through the ears tiny of seedlings and letting the wildflowers blooming in the herb-rich meadow flutter and dance. Eradicating the long-term layers of musty odour with its freshness, the formless and desireless whispered chanting discreetly, making the welkin blush.

Deepak Dubey

Gorakhpur, Uttar Pradesh, India



NEWSBRIEFS NO. 3, AUTUMN 2025

This summer, I had an opportunity to attend the annual convention of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was the first appearance of anyone from the California State Poetry Society in the past ten years. The CSPS laboriously pays the NFSPS annual dues of $3 per member, in exchange of lower fees for members who wish to participate in the NFSPS contests. The NFSPS Convention featured two events for State Poetry Societies’ Presidents where I gleaned some new ideas, for instance to celebrate the 250th anniversary of our great country’s by organizing a special anniversary poetry contest – that would focus on “persona” poems written in the voice of any great historical figure from the past.

        It was also interesting to hear about the many ways in which the State Poetry Societies have been managing their poetry readings and in-person meetings. This was interesting that, since becoming the CSPS President in 2019, I had learned that our Society, spread out over the great distances of California, has little to no interest in live readings, neither in person, nor via Zoom. Here, each area has a number of long-standing in-person readings organized by various local groups and there is no reason for CSPS to compete with them. Instead, our focus has always remained on the written word – the excellent California Quarterly, which continues to be enjoyed by its readers and contributors, and the colorful, art-filled Poetry Letter with featured poets, monthly contest winners, and book reviews. In particular, the CSPS Board has confirmed its lack of interest in  getting involved in “slam poetry” – improvised, live events, mostly by young, politicized, and often very aggressive poets. 

        After attending the finals of the Blackberry Peach Slam during the NFSPS Convention, I realized that the CSPS Board’s focus on the “printed word” poetry and contests is contrary to the priorities of the NFSPS and may necessitate departing from this Federation. The NFSPS brings together over 30 State Poetry Societies, publishes a quarterly Newsletter with brief reports from the states, manages a website, organizes numerous poetry contests, and creates a variety of national policies. Alas, their recently promulgated policies are quite divergent from our society’s preferences, and therefore cannot be adhered to. Thus, after seeking approval for the separation of California from NFSPS by the Board of Directors this fall, we will bring this to the vote of the membership via online ballots. Please note that the NFSPS does not group all 50 states, and the membership occasionally fluctuates, for instance the state of Wisconsin (where the NFSPS was incorporated) recently left the Federation. This necessitated changing the NFSPS Bylaws that mentioned the state of incorporation (the change was approved). 

Poets participating in the haiku death contest, where poets "fought" 
with 3 haiku each, to advance to the next stage...

       In other news, we continue to commemorate the great poet and poetry activist Deborah P Kolodji (1959-2024). The CSPS received a $10,000 Anonymous donation in her memory and we are now deliberating about the best way to honor her. Debbie was a CSPS member and served as Guest Editor of one issue – which was completely sold out. We will print additional copies, then.  Since we love books and journals, we may create a memorial anthology of poetry genres she loved – haiku, haiga, haibun, and other Eastern genres, as well as poetry of science-fiction and the fantastic. Currently, due to many CSPS members not renewing their membership on time, the Society is losing about a thousand dollars per year – due to increasing costs of printing and mailing of our journal.  So, we may need to save the bulk of the gift to ensure the future viability of our beloved CQ. 

Acrobats by Andrzej Kołodziej, oil on canvas.

        The cover of this issue is a copy of a painting by Polish-Californian painter and poet Andrzej Kołodziej  (known also as Andrew Kolo; d. 2025). The intense hues imbue the geometric landscape of “Pacific Coast Highway” with unusual vitality. In 1981, Andrzej founded KrakArt Group of Polish-born Californian painters, that have held many joint exhibitions in the U.S. and in Poland.  His own artwork frequently featured stylized puppet-like figures of acrobats, musicians, or sun-bathers on the golden beach. The “Eyes of Picasso” poem reveal his affinity with artists who transform and deform what they see into their unique, original artworks. Among Andrzej’s writings, his play The Trial of Dali was the most popular, as it was performed in Australia, Poland and at the Hollywood Fringe Festival (2019). As a promoter of poetry, Andrzej organized the Krak Poetry Group that held bilingual readings in California and Poland. As one of two surviving Krak Poetry Group’s members, I’m glad to be honoring Andrzej’s memory with  hiscolorful art and words.

Maja Trochimczyk, CSPS President


Dance by Andrzej Kołodziej