In the second part of the CSPS Poetry Letter No. 1 of 2024 (spring), we present sonnets by Konrad Tademar Wilk and three book reviews. The first part of the Poetry Letter contains winners of 2023 Monthly Poetry Contests. Since most, if not all of the awarded poetry is in free-verse format, I invited Konrad Tademar Wilk (one of the editors of the CSPS California Quarterly) to contribute some of his sonnets and to write three sentences about “why writing sonnets today?”
Instead of answering my question in prose format, Konrad wrote a sonnet about sonnets and replied to my inquiry by reductio ad absurdum. Thanks for the freedom of expression and the blessing of creativity! Best wishes to all poets. Share the joy!
~ Maja Trochimczyk, CSPS President
THE SONNET
For Maja…
Why write sonnets today? Why not? What else—
—would you wish to do? Play golf or bridge?
Ride a gondola down Venetian canals?
Walk along the Campo de Hielo ridge?
I dreamt once of a sonnet in outer space
Full of metaphors like asteroids, and bare—
—planets filled with craters of meaning, a trace...
What is a sonnet good for? It's not fair…
The questions suggest justification
As if the ancient tradition needed:
"modernity's approval," sensation—
—of progress and speed, as though conceded....
...that a sonnet belongs to an antique—
—era... a touch of the older mystique.
March 13, 2024
KONRAD TADEMAR WILK
Elected to the Board of Directors of the California State Poetry Society in May 2020, Konrad Tademar (birth name Wilk) is an American poet living in Los Angeles. His works range from single sonnets to epic poems on themes including current events, myth, and philosophy. In addition to American subjects, his work is strongly informed by international events and history, especially those of freedom and oppression. Tademar's early childhood was spent in Poland where he was particularly influenced by the rise of the anti-communist Solidarity labor union.
Following his return to the U.S., he studied philosophy and literature at Los Angeles City College where he was president of the Poet's Platform. He then went on to graduate from UCLA. His poetry book Fifty Sonnets, titles like labels only get in the way... is available for purchase on-line. Other poetry chapbooks are out of print. He is currently working on two epic poems "Prometheus" and "Trafficking In Time" - scheduled for release in the near future. He has appeared in Los Angeles venues such as the Onyx, Ground's Zero, Magicopolis Theater, Wilshire Art Gallery, Bolton Hall Museum, and Pig and Whistle. In 1991, he founded the Witching Hour Poetry Gathering which has met continuously for over 20 years.
Additionally, he is a founding member of the Pecan Pie Organization, dedicated to artistic promotion and stage performances. Mr. Tademar recently served as the artistic director for Warsaw 80/75 performance of poetry, dance and music, celebrating the 80th anniversary of the outbreak of WWII (German attack on Poland), and the 75th anniversary of the Warsaw Uprising in 1944. The event was held at the Santa Monica Playhouse in September 2019.
The eight sonnets are taken from his book of 164 sonnets, entitled Trafficking in Time and forthcoming from Moonrise Press. Written as a-day-a-sonnet in 2013, these poems are diverse reflections on events of each day and their broader contexts.
SELECTED SONNETS FROM TRAFFICKING IN TIME BY KONRAD TADEMAR WILK
UUR I
To quiet the soul enough to think, to feel, to knowTo give those men and women of your heart a bitTo honor, to recall, to shout like angry crowThe cursed, the forgotten, the banished, the unlitDiffused in the temporal flow of historyStricken from the record of school pages, untaughtTruth rises from the dead, resurrected and freeThe Eastern Soldiers who after Yalta still fought!Not mere men, nor mere women, Titans, legends, saints“Do not go gently into that good night” Thomas –…was right – fight! Fight! Against the blood red restraintsShatter the Hammer and Sickle… though the dawn alas –… is far away, that you will not see freedom riseFight, fight! For all of mankind: fight! And do not lose!We, the children, the grandchildren, brought up on liesWe will thank you after your unmarked graves – false truce –… of “History is a lie agreed on” – have been lostAnd we will light that candle, born again to the sunTo illuminate the moonless night of the crossed––out… the accursed, blotted, excised, like Akhenaton…Żołnierze Wyklęci – here I lower my knee, prayWe will not yield so long as after night comes day.March 1, 2013UUR LVIIDivinity is contained in the unknown spaceA mirror onto the soul, algorithm half lostA half familiar, half forgotten blurry faceDuring the Bosnian War they blew up Stari MostUngraspable, so much so that it slips from the handIncomprehensible, baffling, bewilderingBeyond the mind's capacity to know, like sandSlipping through the fingers, an odd obscure feelingDoes that make sense? A piece of dreams lost and foundCreation and destruction are casually boundI look at the child and cannot see: a limitFor birth and death perception needs to omitEx nihilo nihil fit — throw open Hell's mawsThe event horizon hides the root of love's laws.May 30, 2013
UUR LVIIIHappiness is a woman drunk on love, real joySultry or too sweet, either way, I don’t much careLet it loosen her hair, shatter her reserve — coyAs long as she smiles and swings back and forth, the air——of magic in tune with red lips conjuring spellsFingers making subtle signs suggesting soft placesDarting twinkle stars in the eyes — bottomless wellsLooking at you from across — while making facesSilly and giddy as happiness ought to beFreedom from care, time put on a shelf, dance of lifeHappiness is a woman wearing red, you see——her place beside her man, far from any world strifeMoment to cherish, a sacredness to defendHappiness is a woman’s love holding your hand.
May 31, 2013 – for Sylvia…
UUR. LXIII
Now I close the doors of the caravanseraiAnd let m’soul drink her fill of the waters of lifeA sand storm is come — let the new moon shade the skyDraw your cloak close, cover your eyes, loosen your knifeThe outsiders will seek to pierce your sacred mindBut they are only dust devils — holy water——will scatter their form, a Fata Morgana kindUnreal except to cowards made of feeble matterSteady your gaze as you still your heart, let calm reignMiss not a moment nor opportunityEn passant capture the convergence of breath and painCutting the throat of the threat, bleed to seeThe flesh is the shore controlled self-knowledge makes wholeYou and I are one at Katra where mind meets soul.June 7, 2013 – a Litany against Propaganda
A Secret of Forget-me-nots by Maja Trochimczyk
UUR LXXXVBetween the woods and rustle of leaves beneath the heelsIn the shade of sky-struck trees sacred like mountainsBordered by parking lots with their automobilesCrisp concrete and gleaming glass of crowds at fountainsMiddle-Eastern beads pray at Turkish coffee potBescarved women in sunglasses seeking bargain dealsFar away the Cedars of Lebanon cry notEven if the child in happy ignorance squeals‘Tis difficult to view world as the toddler seesIn innocent curiosity absent maliceBeneath my outstretched palm soil like the bark of trees——dry feels, in wonderland’s hope each child is AliceSo small, rabbit hole sized, time stands still in dream worldTo touch it all once again, the future to hold.
June 23, 2013 – Midsummer
UUR XCVII
White stones in a semi-circle along straight linesClearly I am seeing patterns where there are noneAnd yet ripples of arcane laws appear as signsUnconsciously made in state of true grace; the sun——strikes the stones arranged by an innocent child’s handAnd I recognize by some Lamarckian processTruth in ancestral memory, from distant land…… violating laws of physics — to my heart flies——there to blossom, fester even; hatches sacred——patterns, geometry of broken symmetriesAlchemical design filtering some loose threadSpun by fate to weave the garden back for its treesI’d say the words, but I dare not! I’ll map it out——instead and then I’ll see the stars vanquishing doubt!
June 30, 2013
Dreaming Forget-me-nots - by Maja Trochimczyk
UUR CXLIVSo, let me take you to wide open country, childFor this here concrete and glass steel built bright placeIs just a fancy jail for folks who fear the wildPeople who hate the sweep of the horizon raceSee the heavy yellow moon tonight? It shines strongFrom outside where there are no boundaries, no limitsWhere the one obstacle is the mind, come along——then to beyond, to the gallop rush by one’s witLet the stars be your guide, and your backdrop the moonSet your sights past the clouds, far from here, from man-made——things, let go the city and the road, you’ll know soon——what freedom means, why hope and truth can never fadeTake my words with you to country open wide; trace——a path across the overdark, breathe outer space.August 20, 2013
UUR CLVIII
Parallel lines intersecting at vanishing——point of infinity constraining the bitter——noise of the hurt hummingbird as it fails to singLook to the moon, even there mankind leaves litterGirard Desargues walks lightly… now untouching——plane of non-symmetric temporal vibrationA conflation of science and magic, matching——socks and shoes on the harsh pavement of elationHere Terminus meets Thanatos with steel black wingsSword drawn into perspective central axis lineBehold the moment, a pause to wait if it stingsLove within a mathematical cryptic signThe matrix of oblivion lies in reach of allTorture, while we wait for the other shoe to fall.
ANNA BANASIAK REVIEWS WORLD FAILURE BY EWA LIPSKA
World Failure by Ewa Lipska. Translated by: Anna Stanisz-Lubowiecka, London: Literary Waves, 2024, 80 pages, ISBN 979-888-4655-55-3
Being under the magnifying glass, World Failure is both intriguing and ambiguous volume of poetry. It is the art of distance and thought-provoking work that draws the readers in. The word in this poetry is treated with surgical precision in the tone of metaphysics and cognitive realism. Careful reading becomes a process where new meanings and interpretations appear. The lyrical subject speaks in a hushed voice about important events. The very beginning of the poem Rebus foreshadows an interesting play of meanings:
The riddle
wasn’t limited
to the full Moon
Lipska’s poetry in a high tone, full of references to history and music, is free from pathos and snobbery. The poet leans into a single existence or a phenomenon, watches them under a philosophical magnifying glass and interprets from many points of view. In this respect, it reminds metaphysical poetry of Lars Gusstafson who observing specific ordinary events, objects or scenes builds a kind of deep philosophy of being. Surprising phrases and juxtaposition of words draw the reader into a new attempt to look at the world. It can culminate in a poem:
They Left. They Didn’t Come Back
They left. They didn’t come back.
Tangerines on the table.
The season of life is over.
The paintings they left behind
grow on the wall.
In World Failure the themes of love, death, passing, and pain are touched upon from a new perspective.
***
Life
acute preventive measure
against death.
It is eminently intellectual poetry requiring from the reader knowledge not only in the field of literature, but also painting, music, history. The poem A Few moments on music is delightful here beginning with the „harmony of the spheres” and ending mysteriously:
Luckily
music
is not
human.
The role of poetry and poets „sentenced to poems” is presented in an interesting way.
Homeless Poem
The homeless poem wanders
around the dark matter of paper.
Nobody’s. The author left it
to its fate. An orphan of words.
Sometimes
poems are like abandoned dogs
barking for poetry.
Irony, humour, distance to oneself and the world shine through this poetry woven from a colourful fabric. And although it is the art. of cultural criticism you can feel the longing for the personal truth of existence and being „here and now” among wars and the returning memory of galaxies.
Working Memory
I won’t be your role model.
We sit between wars
slicing the cheese of the moon
on a black plate.
I’m made of fears
and you need confidence.
I hold doubt and regret at gunpoint
and you’re aiming at delight and courage.
A box of chocolates on the table.
I’m treating them to planets.
Celestial bodies in chocolate […]
I can with full responsibility recommend a new poetry book by an outstanding poetess Ewa Lipska who in each poem gives us food for thought and reinterpretation of phenomena of nature and culture that are close to us leaving creative doubts. ~ Anna Banasiak
MICHAEL ESCOUBASE REVIEWS FAMILY MATTERS BY JUDIE RAE
Family Matters—Poems for and about Grandparents and Grandchildren by Judie Rae, 42 Poems ~ 72 pages. Publisher: Kelsay Books. ISBN: 978-1-63980-353-8.
In her late teens, my wife of 54 years, was hurt in an ill-advised relationship. During this dark time, she found refuge on her grandparents’ farm. Away from social scrutiny, she felt the healing hands and wise counsel of these loving people. Out of the crucible of experience they became ministering spirits to a devastated girl. This memory returned to me as I set about writing this review. Family Matters is a collection replete with life, captured in verse, which will encourage and verify our roles as major influencers in our families.
Grandparents and the Sense of Place.
It is difficult to separate special people from their habitations. Rae opens her collection with “The Cottage”, excerpted here:
No one clear memory
of the first time I saw my grandmother’s
cottage stands out, no haunting view that returns
distinct from all the other times
I visited—and love—that home.
The river? Certainly that. But also
the wooden floor Grandma
painted forest green,
bent over at the waist, wearing her
no-nonsense shoes.
The washer with the wringer
That once drew here hand through.
The bruises, the broken
Hand, I see still.
The poem continues setting a stage, as in a play. Grandma’s garden which produced homegrown raspberries sitting on a bowl of cereal, a tiny bug found floating in melting ice cream served for dessert. “He didn’t eat much,” Grandma says; the dining room where everyone gathered to wait out the storm until it passed; and geese flying in flocks marking seasonal changes. The person so much a part of the place; the two are one in the make of the mind; both indelibly etched in memory.
Grandparents and the Sense of Touch.
“What She Said,” is rich with healing intimacy. The poet:
. . . can hear still my grandmother’s
archaic language, feel her warm
aged hands as she patted my back,
attempting to soothe me,
to erase the pain of whatever
hurt had befallen her grandchild.
Solace was her magic,
a stoic’s take on the world,
the bandage she offered.
Her own pain was masked,
lessened
by the aid she gave
others.
Whatever it is that grandparents have, call it a gift . . . Rae captures. Grandparents mask their personal hurts as they, with deft fingers, rub the shoulders of the aching young. Rae describes it thus . . .
and rubbed my shoulders
waiting for the ache
to ease, listening,
always listening, saying
little, though some words
ring yet in memory:
Don’t fret, child.
A Word About What Poets Do.
The best poets have a knack for drawing you in. They have inscrutable eyes. Commonplace things breathe the essential air of love. In titles such as: “The Woodshed,” the scent of wet wood, the musty residue of a leaky roof come through. “Unspoken Love,” tenderly evokes wonderment as the poet recalls opportunities when she didn’t tell her grandmother how she colored her life, how she gifted her with a childhood worth remembering. Rae displays literary skill in her use of humor and irony in “Saving for College,” where coins were saved in a large jar deposited by parents, friends and relatives. One day the jar was shattered. When grandma inquired of her granddaughter where a replacement jar could be found, the response was: “Probably at the college fund store.”
“For Aubrey, at Home,” makes excellent use of internal rhyme, a technique which serves her well in delivering a heartfelt message:
Fever claims her baby rest
and she lays her small fierce body
against my chest and pats
my back as if to say,
It’s okay, Grandma; I know
you had nothing to do
with this.
The wild expanse of years
moves between us—
little miss/crone
bridged by touch
I pat her back
to soothe
this child of my child.
As my grandmother
patted me,
her wrinkled hands, so mild,
now mine
breeching time
to bind all three:
Ghost, Grandmother, Child.
In this my seventh decade, I’ve learned to let my children and grandchildren live their lives. While tempted to impart “my” thoughts, “my” opinions, “my” wisdom, quite often I am the one who learns and grows because of them. However, if I were to offer a life-vision for my dear ones, this would be the one:
Directions to the Good Life
For my grandchildren
Head north to the future, windows
rolled down to collect the breeze.
On you way, feed the hungry.
Gas up on wonder.
Bypass the intersection of bitterness
and anger. Get lost. Find yourself
in kindness and smiles.
Grandparents: If you’re looking for that elusive “something” you can’t quite put your finger on . . . pick up a copy of Judie Rae’s, Family Matters—Poems for and About Grandparents and Grandchildren.
~ Michael Escoubas
MICHAEL ESCOUBAS REVIEWS QUARANTINE HIGHWAY
BY MILLICENT BORGES ACCARDI
Quarantine Highway by Millicent Borges Accardi. 70 Poems ~ 93 pages. Cover Art by Ralph Almeida. Flower Song Press. ISBN: 978-1-953447-35-7
I was immediately struck by the title of Millicent Borges Accardi’s fifth collection, Quarantine Highway. It suggests an interesting duality: full-stop on one hand, unlimited access on the other. In a book about the recently concluded pandemic, the title itself captures the essence.
I believe it will be at least a decade, maybe more, before a definitive history of the Covid-19 Pandemic will be written. In the meantime, it is the province of poets to guide folks through the conundrum of an era still impacting our nation’s collective consciousness.
For a time it seemed we were living in a land (indeed in a world) not our own, navigating or trying to navigate life. It was a sea of uncertainty inhabiting two worlds. One voice commanded, “Stay in;” another screamed, “Get out,” or “Let me out”! My goal in this review is to highlight this poet’s unrelenting quest to capture this tension.
“We’ll Come Down Close Behind,” epitomizes Accardi’s title. I share it in full:
And such and we have
and we need and we wa
and we have and if it happens,
we couldn’t leave, and there is not a
never in the universe except now.
And but and and and for and if
Our place to live, it is a song
let it run peacefully into
the coda or the second chorus
where the refrain takes over.
And such and such and the homeless,
And prisons, and why can’t I
leave my home without a mask.
We’d come down close behind
in the middle of a crowd, as if we
mattered and as if things were
normal rather than a new normal,
which is odious. Then, then and then
and could. Once, existence was on
full speed, catching rumors,
and touching faces and going outside.
Let me assure readers that the repetitions employed by Accardi are not typographical errors. Rather, they are part of her strategy to reach into the heart of her subject. It is like reaching into the trash because something that isn’t trash is buried there . . . she wants to find it, needs to grasp an elusive something emerging with it firmly in hand.
Note line 6. I count 5 repetitions of the word “and,” which is a coordinating conjunction. Conjunctions link related phrases and ideas in a way that makes sense. Why would Accardi use the term as she does? I encourage thoughtful readers to ponder.
Even Accardi’s titles illustrate her strategy; they tend to be a little off-center, like the world of her subject. Titles selected at random: “Side by Side in Fragile,” “For Truth would be from a Line,” “As Among Grotesque Trees,” “Differently, the Way Everything is Wrong,” and “I Told My Friend to Rub her Lice Against my Hair.” These are merely instances cited to show that Quarantine Highway is possibly the most unique Pandemic collection to hit the market EVER!
This excerpt from “In Oblivion,” illustrates (as do many others) how we felt:
It is as if the world’s engines
have ground to a frozen metal in the middle of
the midst inside a clutter clutch
of busy confusion and everyone
has been cast off, from the
blissful-working-gears we used
to down shift into.
The poem goes on to illustrate how . . .
We are ambiguous, a lost
part of speech, left behind.
Something my wife and I felt during this period was that of being cocooned like caterpillars. We imagined ourselves emerging as something more than before. “In Later Time,” is about a similar sense of darkness or half-darkness, a kind of swampy murkiness. “There was / violence in the air, and I kept asking / myself what is another word for suffuse?” This poem captures a certain labyrinthine feel common during the pandemic. Try as we might the maze seemed to keep on winning.
While it seemed to be winning, in truth, it lost. Emerging, as a nation, from the cocoon alluded to above, it is my conviction that the caterpillar has become a butterfly. Are challenges latent in the aftermath? Of course, but my take from Accardi’s bold new collection is one of hope. Accardi faces the hard reality of Covid-19. In poems that say what few others are bold enough to say, Quarantine Highway, inspires me to appreciate the good life offers. A literal quarantine may not be the worst quarantine. Do we not quarantine ourselves by the choices we make to cede our lives to evil?
Because of this poet, your reviewer is more determined than ever to live life to the full.
~ Michael Escoubas
The Poetry Letter ((Online ISSN 2836-9394; Print ISSN 2836-9408) is a quarterly electronic publication, issued by the California State Poetry Society. Edited by Maja Trochimczyk since 2020 and by Margaret Saine earlier. The Poetry Letter is emailed and posted on the CSPS website, CaliforniaStatePoetrySociety.org. Sections of the Poetry Letter are also posted separately on the CSPS Blog, CaliforniaStatePoetrySociety.com.
