CSPS Poetry Letter No. 1 of 2026 - Spring, Part I: Winners of CSPS Monthly Poetry Contests in 2025

“March of Intellect No. 2” by William Heath (1794 – 1840), Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

In a cartoon made in England in March 1828, entitled “March of Intellect, No. 2,” there are many fantastical aerial machines including some bizarre ones, such as a volcano propelling a flight, but there is not a single shape of a modern airplane with widely outstretched wings and a narrow, elongated body. Our imagination often fails to foreshadow what is truly coming… 

The humble beginnings of aerial flight are mostly associated with balloons, that from scientific wonders devolved into hobbies of afficionados and children’s toys. To illustrate this, the first Poetry Letter of the 250th anniversary year of our great nation, I picked some historical images of balloons, and added my photos from the Balloon Fiesta in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It is good to know how far we have gone since the humble beginnings of exiles seeking freedom far from their oppressive homelands. Was everything perfect from the start? No. Is everything perfect now? No. Was it worth it to create the world’s first republic, based on “inalienable rights of Life, Liberty, and pursuit of Happiness”? Certainly. The Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution are shining lights for the world… even if having needed a multitude of Amendments.

Here, we present the fruit of poets’ pursuit of creative freedom and happiness: the winners of Monthly Contests of 2025. The  featured poet Nancy Murphy, and reviews of three poetry books will be posted in Part II. Enjoy!

Maja Trochimczyk, CSPS President

A London Street Scene with Six Balloons (1825), Print by George Cruikshank (1792 – 1878). Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum.

WINNERS OF CSPS MONTHLY POETRY CONTESTS IN 2025

The hard-working, insightful, and sharp-eyed Alice Pero, Monthly Contest Judge, selected the following poems and poets as winner of prizes in our Monthly Contests in 2025.

① January: Nature, Landscape. 

1st Prize: Lorraine Jeffery, “Next Gen Storm Dance”

② February: Love. 

1st Prize: Richard T. Ringley, “Translation”

③ March: Open, Free Subject. 

1st Prize: Jeff Graham, “Winter(')s(')”. 

2nd Prize: David Anderson, “No Breeze”

3rd Prize: Katharyn Howd Machan, “Laura Pearce: Redwing, 1888”

④ April: Mythology, Dreams, Other Universes. 

1st Prize: Katharyn Howd Machan, “Helen”

⑤ May: Personification, Portraits. 

1st Prize: Carla Schick, "What Is Stolen Will Never Be Returned"

⑥ June: The Supernatural. 

1st Prize: Rebecca Clayton ,”If I Were a God”

2nd Prize: Richard Ringley, “Kumi Ho and the Night of the Waning Moon”

⑦ July: Childhood, Memoirs.

1st Prize: John Monagle, “Communion” 

2nd Prize: Lorraine Jeffery, “My Quiet Grandmother”

⑧ August: Places, Poems of Location.

1st Prize: Peter Ludwin, “Terezin Concentration Camp, Bohemia”

2nd Prize: Laura Grevel, “Geodetic Survey Three-Dimensional Changes in Crustal Motion at mm Scale”

3rd Prize: Michael Shoemaker, “The Gift of a Lane”

⑨ September: Colors, Music, Dance.

1st Prize: Katharyn Howd Machan, “During Music”

2nd Prize: Lorraine Jeffery, “Coda” 

3rd Prize: Kathryn Schmeiser, ”A Chance to Dance”

⑩ October: Humor, Satire. 

1st Prize: Katharyn Howd Machan, "People Often Ask"

⑪ November: Family, Friendship, Relationships.

 1st Prize: Bill Glose, “Devotion”

⑫ December: Back Down to Earth (Time, Seasons).

1st Prize: John W. Crawford, "Do Not Go Gentle--A January Morning"

2nd Prize: Katharyn Howd Machan, "We Gather for Bells"

"The National Parachute, or John Bull Conducted to Plenty and Emancipation," 1802, Print by James Gillray (1756-1815), Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum.

 JANUARY 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

Next Gen Storm Dance (text)

A black curtain drops 

behind the mesa.

 First one    then another 

                  jagged ZZZ

  STREAK.

A dry network flaring

    flashing.

No clouds now,

only dancers.

September swelter,  

a waft of creosote from greasewoods. 

No moccassined toe-heel shuffle,

               to muffled 

                                                                                                     drum beat.

Baggy jeans,

baseball caps on backward.

Frenetic energy flashes

iridescent white T-shirts,

young voices call 

                             Dougie!

                                                           Jerk!

        Pop, lock & drop it!

Lean wit it!

    Rock wit it!

  Walk it out!

      Stanky legg!

                Cat daddy!

No rain,

only sweat,

Mesa Hip Hop.   

Lorraine Jeffery, First Prize, January 2025

World's Columbian Exposition, 1893: Chicago, Ill. Smithsonian Institution Archives,

Record Unit 95, Box 61, Folder 11, Image No. SIA_000095_B61_F11_022

FEBRUARY 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

Translation

Ah, mon amie,

I have walked these streets 

naked in thought,

this old city that clings to me 

in cobblestone dreams.

I have gathered the odd expression 

in semi-coherent French:

Mon Francais

 N’est pas tres bon

Je ne sais pas; Ca ne fait rien.

The coffeehouses emote 

such wonderful smells, 

a croissant with cream 

a moment alone.

       This quiet quest 

       is calming me,

is healing and healing…

Ah, come with me.

For in my tight winter coat, 

I have walked these streets, 

more naked than nude - 

thinking of you.

Richard T. Ringley, First Prize, February 2025

MARCH 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

1835 Sampler, Embroidery by Elizabeth Tudor, b. 1822.

Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum.

       Winter(')s(')

                  Quartet for Four Cellos

White atop haygrey.

    Winter's unpassable.

White atop white.

    Horses long now gone.

Yes, after I had gone.

    No, before my arrival. 

Winter passes to winter.

    White atop white atop.

Distant hoofclick.

    Winter passes t6 winter's passing; 

    winter passes to winters past.

*

Sundays come and go; weeks pass.

    Lambs grown old now. 

    Winter nears winter.

Snowdrift; therefore, I am. 

Woolen sky; therefore, I drift.

Shepherd and shepherded of and by

     glances upon the vast.

Winter greets winter greeted.

    Could it be that I?

*

Fleshliness of snow, chill of blossoms, 

chill of flesh, blossoms of snow.

Days and I grown abruptly older. 

Days and I known only by the days.

Blossoms that mantle the snow as they land

    are too brief for their sakes,

    do not fall for their sakes alone.

*

White fields black with last harvest's stubble. 

White fields white with white of field.

Stutter-step past and as the unseen,

toward as from (and along and across)

a milkfilm of cornea (mine and not,

    yet otherwise).

    Or say, I eye my I's.

White fields green with sleep. 

Adrift, I shift my gaze adrift.

 Jeff Graham, First Prize, March 2025

No Breeze

the sky fades, luminous, cloud-free,                             

beyond the horizon of city trees                                         

on this side of the fence lies leaf litter,                                        

crinkled, curled, dry, colorless 

past the fence, straw-colored grass

no longer lit by the descending sun

fences left in the field no longer visible

birds chirp and settle to a bare rustle

no breeze moves the windchimes

under distant trees, car headlights 

turn and vanish into the dark

the sky loses its pale sheen

the coming night claims it all       

David Anderson, Second Prize, March 2025

Laura Pearce: Redwing, 1888

When the Gypsies came, your grandmother 

made me promise not to go to the woods 

where fires blazed and music played

and dark-eyed women danced in coins. 

She said they'd steal a girl like me 

with golden hair and flower skin

and make me beg in filthy clothes 

and feed me scraps of moldy bread.

But the second night the moon rose yellow 

and full, and lilacs filled the air.

I couldn't stay; silently I slipped 

through the gate, blue shawl a shield 

against my family's eyes. I ran

through the town's spring-heavy streets

to where the Gypsies camped, new green

of trees a canopy of lace.

He saw me first, the fiddler, his bow 

poised in firelight, black hair a curve 

of crow's wing on his brow. I knew 

he knew I'd come to them, to him, 

for music, night, the sound and smell 

of waking earth, brush of pale moths

 at my mouth, cry and ache of strings

stretched taut across old polished wood.

Only fifteen, and such knowledge! Slowly 

I let the blue shawl fall, and slowly

I stepped near as he smiled and played 

the song I had long felt in dream

and never heard and always known.

Slowly I moved; then the tempo quickened,

my feet flickering shadows on ground

dancing, dancing to the Gypsy's touch.

How long? The May stars whirled a course

of new-born constellations, stories

it's taken me years to recall. And after,

he led me to his mother's tent, and spoke. 

She brought a tea of sassafras and mint, 

perhaps, some spice I've yet to taste again, 

and traced her fingers on my palm

and stroked my hair. Both stroked my hair.

What else? I left behind the shawl, 

took home instead a fine-spun scarf

she offered from, a chest. Yes-the same

that's always hung above your bed, 

blue with that single golden coin

sewn in you used to call your star.

Remember, when they try to tell you Gypsies

are no good. Remember, when you dance.

Katharyn Howd Machan, Third Prize, March 2025

“The Balloon 'Buffalo'” D. N. Hatfield, ca. 1875–80, Cleveland, Ohio, USA.

Collodion photographic prints on yellow cardboard. Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum

APRIL 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

Helen

They say it was my face. No:

let me tell you about marriage. 

Silences and swords, a stone house,

my women whispering around me

dull as bees. For years before he touched 

our doorsill, I dreamt his voice;

the silver gifts he brought were tiny 

mirrors of the girl I'd held inside

too long. Soon I turned willing hands

to weave for him, each thread a piece

of secret song. The peacock blue, the purple

heart of pansies, red a cry of sun

                        

setting over unclimbed hills. I asked                                                           

to go with him. I knew he watched me 

walk across cool tile, my feet in sandals

I yearned to kick away 

so I could run to him unbound

by safe convention. Strange strong guest,

reluctant to offend the man he knew 

I didn't love, whose hospitality

was heartless, rote, a hand that drops 

coins in a beggar's cup without a glance.

One morning when the sun rose white 

and helplessly again I moved to stand

beside him where the swans swim slow, 

he took my hand in his and nodded yes.

All time burst to blossom and I

knew what it was to be the rose.

Swift ships, sting of salty air, my hair 

wrapped around his fingers in the dark:

we could have lived forever in that place 

of travel, seabirds wailing overhead,

the men around us eyeing me like some

pure stolen chance-how could they know?—and my

hopes free as any muscled gleaming fish

leaping higher than those blue and bitter waves.

                                                                               Katharyn Howd Machan, First Prize, April 2025 

                                                                     

“Clayton’s Ascent” paper box celebrating world record 350-mile flight on 9 April 1835 by Richard Clayton who flew from Ohio to Virginia. The Smithsonian's National Air and Space Museum.

MAY 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

What Is Stolen Will Never Be Returned

Remember when we swayed

our hips   side to side

in perfect rhythm

so that a piece of circular plastic

moved through an infinite path?

We made it seem so easy

even in memory.

I was only four, not 

the graceful girl

my mother wanted

But I knew how to travel

around the world

with my hips linked to a hula hoop

short strong legs neatly placed

Better than climbing trees

or sneaking out onto a fire escape

to watch the skyline at dusk.

I dropped it 

searching for the next game

   Gone.    The wet weeded lawn

could not have hidden

the hoop’s golden flecks.

I refused 

to imagine how my precious hoop

would look

Severed from my body

Then from a distance I hear

hey boy   where’d

your toy go?

I looked

all around    could they mean 

me?

Running stampedes on cement

a glint of my body

trapped in an endless loop

of stolen goods

Published in Suisun Valley Review, Sprint 2024

Carla Schick, First Prize, May 2025

Balloons at Albuquerque, New Mexico, October 2025 by Maja Trochimczyk

JUNE 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

If I Were a God

The glass is smooth and the water clear.

There’s something simple to be found here.

If I were a god, and the world inside,

I’d soothe the green surface and quiet the tide.

And all that is mottled and of the mind,

the ivy that shakes, makes dryads blind,

I’d rip up the roots and leave breath behind.

The glass is gone and the water free

to run through my fingers and to the sea.

If I were a god, and the world without,

I’d trust it to truth and to turn about.

Rebecca Clayton, First Prize, June 2025

Kumi Ho and the Night 

of the Waning Moon

(A Kumiho is a creature that appears in Korean folktales. The creature is described as a nine-tailed fox. The creature transforms itself into a beautiful woman that seduces men to consume their flesh.)

She wore a cross of gold

that fell between her craggy breasts

and when they started to disrobe, she thought:

It’s for the best

She laid upon a mat

then raised her legs into the air.

He slipped into an Asian dream. She stroked

her long dark hair.

She turned her head to weep

as the moon waned and darkness grew.

She whispered, “Please forgive me now for what

I need to do.”

She held him tight and fell

confusion seeped upon his face

She felt the weight of flesh and doubt dissolved

without a trace.

Soon it began to rain

on dusty roads and dusty men.

And when his ghost had disappeared, she felt

at ease again.

Richart T. Ringley, Second Prize, June 2025

JULY 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

Communion

Mother lifts me to her shoulder

and follows the man to the aisle.

All the big people around us move

forward in slow separate lines.

A few big people sit.

Others kneel. All are silent.

I look where mother is facing.

A bigger,older man in a multi-color robe

stands between two boys dressed in white.

As both lines approach them,

the older man places

a thing white treat on their tongues,

which they receive, walk to the side

in opposite directions. With the same hand,

each touches the top of their heads,

descends to the belly, then one shoulder

before crossing to the other.

I turn around and smile

at the smiling woman behind us.

Mother gets close enough for me to hear

the man in the robe say something.

Each person in line responds in kind

before the treat is placed on the tongue.

The man makes the same sounds

to my mother who has the same response.

She closes her eyes. The treat

placed on her tongue must be really tasty.

With the same hand as others,

she touches her brow, her belly,

the shoulder on which I’m resting

before the other.

Then she turns and walks away.

I reach for the treat

getting further beyond my grasp.

John Monagle, First Prize, July 2025

 

My Quiet Grandmother

They were one—

the kitchen, my grandmother

and the black wood stove.

A kitchen thick with browning butter

and silence.

No opinions in an

opinionated family.

No anger, no hateful stares

no scathing words

but—

no spontaneous laughter

Her eyes smiled at children

and grandchildren

and she lied once about who broke

the door on the black oven.

“I did it,” she said to 

protect her young daughter

from his wrath. 

This woman of work—

who was she?

Why so parsimonious

with her smiles and laughter?

Did she have her own

hopes and dreams?

Did she reheat the remains

of her wishes on

the stove of her soul?

My grandmother, the stove

and the kitchen.

She died at fifty one.

Was her life left lingering

in the ashes?

Lorraine Jeffery, Second Prize, July 2025

AUGUST 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

Terezin Concentration Camp, Bohemia

Near the railway spur

bones still cry for water.

And the ashes?

Who can say what roots they nourish,

what borders they have crossed?

Here the ship never sails,

the shawl cannot cover.

Tell me silence isn’t the loudest voice.

When the open mouth forgets itself,

the straw man drinks his shadow.

And the moon?

Gracing a wanted poster,

an impossible price on its head.

Coal-faced, it shuns the cattle cars

rolling east on tracks of tallow.

Absence. Isn’t that the surest

footprint of a crime?

The song the mockingbird teaches its young?

This rain grazes the skin like rust.

Peter Ludwin, First Prize, August 2025

Ludwin poem was published in The Raven Chronicles

 (2010) and in Rumors of Fallible Gods

Geodetic Survey Three-Dimensional Changes

 in Crustal Motion at mm Scale

My first country is the size of a grain of sand, the size of a ticking minute, the size of a clicking trigger, the size of a tadpole kicking, the size of the little blue pond in the garden where a blackbird drinks. My first country is also the size of the Milky Way in a West Texas night, the size of a cicada's exoskeleton clinging to a live oak branch, the size of the Grand Canyon's pink and orange hide, the size and the sighs of a three-day Certified Public Accountaney Exam. My first country is on certain days the size of the Longhorns Marching Band performing Crazy Orange Bread in the University of Texas Football Stadium, the size of a trumpet spitting, the size of the football just kicked, the size of eleven Black football players on their knees in protest, the size of twenty-two law students playing frisbee at Harvard Law School, the size of a book called Catch-22, the size of high-rise glass office buildings where people stare out and want to go down.

My first country is the size of an incredibly sour wild Mustang grape hanging over Waller Creek, the size of the first Whole Foods Grocery down on Lamar Boulevard packed with shoppers and a mariachi band, the size of the little red Mountain Laurel bean that we rubbed on the hot concrete and then burned each other's legs with when we were eight, the size of fresh tamales at Christmas, the size of a ram after drought, the size of a million acres burning in wildfires, the size of a bluebonnet meadow blooming after rain, the size of my grandfather's booming voice saying, "We got an inch of rain. It's beautiful!"

My first country is also the size of a baby's laugh, the size of a gunshot, the size of a women's peace march, the size of a coffin. The size of 100,000 coffins marching down the road to protest gun deaths. My first country is the size of the 1960s, of a race riot where a youth named Cisco slapped a school bus with a big chain, the size of children's screams, the size of an Armadillo World Headquarters' rock concert, the size of Willy Nelson and Eddy Ramone and Led Belly on stage together, the size of a 1975 bright red fire engine truck, the size of a hurricane named Elva that lifted houses and set them down with cows inside, the size of a child riding downhill with no hands on the handlebars.

My first country is even the size of a front porch with two old lady best friends chatting, the size of an attic on a broiling day with eight children discovering a nest of new-born mice nicely pink, the size of a cockroach on your face, the size of a UFO at a campout that bursts into sight, turns a corner and disappears.

My first country is the size of me.                                                                       

                       Laura Grevel, Second Prize, August 2025

The Gift of a Lane

In Lyme Regis, UK, lies a lane of no remark

a shortcut, a get around, a no-honk, no-horn walk away

to meet and chat with fellow neighbors

and friends from around the world.

Sherborne Lane has a giving nature

where children play and run alongside 

the River Lim to the stone-studded sea

chasing chanting seagulls.

Steepled in fragrant, flowered descent

lovely, demure, narrow, intimate as a whisper, 

it is where in Saxon times

pack horses plodded with a heavy load

and slowly yielded 

to salt processing and fishing nets.

Holiday cottages are waiting, to let 

submersed in wonder and purple breeze wisteria.

Michael Shoemaker, Third Prize, August 2025

SEPTEMBER 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

       During Music

Find the blue balloon. 

Find it rising into a sky

the very same blue, a blue

that makes the blue balloon

hard to see, hard to find.

Let your mind

become a woman dressed in white—

old-fashioned, from long ago—

standing at the end of a path

with a basket in her hand.

Watch her stand

as though looking to give flowers

to the next lone traveler

who gently comes her way.

Say nothing.

Simply, step by step,

approach her open smile.

While you walk,

while you find her eyes,

remember that blue sky.

               Why are you here at all?

Give your name,

the secret one a bad person

once told you not to share.

Dare accept

a blossom full and bright.

Light will lengthen

as the woman nods and says

her name, the one

you heard whispered

from the blue balloon.

Soon you and she

will both gaze up,

recite a poem,

and watch it climbing high.

       Katharyn Howd Machan, First Prize, September 2025

 

Coda

Music begins in water

an overture to petrichor

the rondo arriving in a soft drizzle

an allegro patter of rain on leaves.

A vibrato creek

burbling its way

over slick pebbles

and down to

the waterfall's

glissando an

atonal ballad

cascading to

the symphonic river

sloshing the banks

with vibrato

on its way to

the oceans

that sing the world's lullabies

in the rustic lilt of seafoam.

Old hushless drums a pulsating song as

treble waves seek a shore

over the bass harmony

of hallelujah choruses.

Lorraine Jeffery, Second Prize, September 2025

 

A Chance to Dance

 

I drift on the beach, faster 

than a morning stroll, almost

dance with a solitary

sandpiper before wings

spread, legs push away

from warmed grains.  Still

there, I search not for

shells, broken or whole

but for dreams tucked

in algae clumps, a splayed

white feather, broken bits

of smooth edged blue

glass.  I hum with waves,

toes lifting from sand, feet

moving to the beat of water

clapping hands with ebbs

and flows.  I dance

alone with the sea,

a feather blowing

on my hat.  I glide,

 a bird whirling

    legs circling

        feet rising

            arms rounding

The sea grasps my hand

Kathryn Schmeiser, Third Prize, September 2025

OCTOBER 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

People Often Ask

Look into a crystal of Iceland spar 

and you can see the secret 

of the trilobite’s vision..

~  Richard Fortey

Are trilobites still alive today?

They wear wellies even when it isn't raining. They use 

burnbershoots. Broken ones.

What killed the trilobites?

When is the last time

you ate uncooked frozen pizza?

Are trilobites extinct?

Extinct but not a failure.

Most achieve perfect scores on standardized tests 

even when they've lost their glasses.

Are trilobite fossils rare?

Keep looking: dragons turned them into jewelry even though they 

are not gold.

Are trilobites dangerous?

Imagine a bartender at 2 a.m. when you have no 

money to pay.

Can trilobites swim?

Bikinis---polka dot, of course.

Or naked if the wind at dawn is soft.

Who can love a trilobite?

No one--unless your name is Winifred

or, sometimes, maybe George.

Katharyn Howd Machan, First Prize, October 2025

NOVEMBER 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

Devotion

Dawn is kneeling

in the garden, as if

praying the deer

will allow daylilies

and Indian hawthorn

to bloom in full

before gnawing

down to their stems.

Above her head,

a dance of butterflies

wobbles like a halo.

How could I not think

about grace?

I’m still standing by

the sliding door with

a coffee mug in hand

when she comes

back to the house,

steps tentative

on uneven ground

as she leans heavily

on her cane, face

and arms smeared

with streaks of dirt,

gloves gripped

in one hand

like a prize

she’s just won.

Bill Glose,  First Prize, November 2025

DECEMBER 2025 MONTHLY CONTEST

Do Not Go Gentle—A January Morning

It was the coldest night of winter—

eighteen degrees at six that morning.

Some of the past days had been balmy

and many days had seen heavy rains,

the wettest late fall on record for years.

Some flowers in fact had budded out of season.

An azalea bloom, one purple petunia blossom,

and some red begonias were hanging on one by one

reaching for the sun for one more burst of energy.

Two mornings before the ultra cold spell

I noticed the wild running-rose bush by the front gate

showing three new small red buds, brimming with life.

Next day, they were all in bloom

and on the morning of the death-making cold

they were still there, clinging on in the intense weather

like an unsuspecting victim, breathing its last breath.

There they stood in the bright morning sun—a glowing red trinity—

three red roses, defying the odds, surrounded by

drooping green stems and rusty brown leaves,

screaming with life, making a mockery of dormant winter,

saying to the world, as Dylan had said long before,

“Do not go gentle into that dark night.”

John W. Crawford, First Prize, December 2025

We Gather for Bells

Dark days, long nights: yet light

happens among us with red candles

and music rising from pull and pause

to praise the pulse we carry within

as we brave season’s weight. Solstice!

Let us embrace the peaceful place

of roots at rest, of seeds asleep,

of ice a sure and steady promise

as we wait for new birth. Dance

I offer and urge to all

who fear that winter kills and stills: 

find full rhythm in body’s joy

to be alive as clappers clang,

brass and bronze, silver

sending the boldest, brightest song

to call our hands and hips to move

in celebration of our thanks

for sloping valleys, snow-deep hills.

Published in Abandoned Mine

Katharyn Howd Machan, Second Prize, December 2025

Contents of California Quarterly, Vol. 52, No. 1 (Spring 2026) edited by Konrad Tademar Wilk

 

 California Quarterly, Vol. 52, No. 1 (Spring 2026), ed. Konrad Tademar Wilk 

Cover photo: "Freedom" by Maja Trochimczyk

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Shameless  — David Moreland   — 7

Family Mathematics    — Ilene Millman     —   8

On the Mountainside   — David Moreland   — 9

This Now    —   Doreen Beyer   — 10

Flopper Wish so Sudden   —    W. C. Gosnell     — 11

Wintertime    — James Cronin   —     12

Neighborhood in Heat   — Anne Stone  —   13

Mendocino National Forest –  Blue’s Birthday  —    Anne Stone   — 14

Night Ride   — Günther Bedson  —  15

Rough Magic   — Catherine Fletcher   —  16

Connemara   —  Günther Bedson  —  18

Muffin Clouds   — W. C. Gosnell  —  19

Betrayal —  Amirah Al Wassif   — 20

The Compliment   — David Romanda   —  21

Sonata Theory    —  J. Alan Nelson   —   22

If I Were a Painter   — Lin Wen Chao    —   23

What Can Anyone Tell Anyone?   — J. Alan Nelson    —  24

Bridge of Sighs   — Carlo DiOrio  —  25

The Last Speech    —  Lin Wen Chao  —   26

Summer and the Full of It   — Charlene Langfur   — 27

El Encuentro, or A Moth’s  Wings Under Glass   — Amy Nocton  —   28

La Mujer libélula, or What She Could Not Do   — Amy Nocton   — 29

Samalon Bird   — Fhen M.  —   30

Mozart’s Final Summer 1791   — Byron Beynon   — 31

Cosmic Latte  —   Gavin Kayner  —   32

Open, Sesame  —   Amirah Al Wassif  —    34

Throwing Pebbles in a Pond — John Cole   —  35

Unnamed Brook  —    Russell Rowland — 36

Rough in the Age of Smooth  —   Matt Thomas  —  37

Without a Womb   — Amirah Al Wassif  —   38

Death and Godless Lands —    Leon Amanda   —  40

Brynmawr  —  Byron Beynon  —  43

Ozymandias Remanded  —    Don Palmer   —  44

The Unseen Light — Walt Franklin — 45

When Your Mother Dies, Say the Belgians  —   Laura Walter   —  46

Slowly, Slowly, He Was Carrying   —   Ravi Sonakia    —  47

Balance  —  Matt Thomas    —  48

It Beckoned Me, and I Was Lost --  Ravi Sonakia  —  49

Converted into Poem     —   Ravi Sonakia   — 50

Given Voice  —   Doreen Beyer  —  53

The Tower’s Shadow  —   Catherine Fletcher  —  52

The Fruit of the Blue Tree —   Konrad Tademar Wilk  —  54

Contributors in Alphabetical Order      —  55

 CSPS Contest Opportunities       —        55

CSPS Newsbriefs 2026, No.1 by Maja Trochimczyk    —   58

Publishing Opportunities with CSPS  — 61

2024 CSPS Donors, Patrons, and Membership — 63

Membership Form   —  64

EDITOR’S NOTE 

There are some poems, a handful, that call out to you from the page, and you must come back to them, slowly, slowly, as if carrying a heavy sense of wintertime. You can hear their ink as it boils with ideas and feelings. I was dismayed when I glanced at the verses that I could not hear the words at once. Then I looked again through the mist of letters and spaces, between commas and periods, and the poems cleared up with meaning. It was a sign that “This street knows my name.” 

A start then, and then I walked the street of words, between dreams and trees and found myself looking up the word “frapple” in the Urban Dictionary (a bizarre cosmic disturbance) – which is what editing any collection of poems really is, rippling through time and space, just on a smaller scale, that of a page. It was a tug of war between my soul and my curiosity. One verse eluded me, I had to hunt the name of the poet down, another verse called me back after I rejected it, and then I realized I had misread all the lines. There was, as there always is, a lot of rough magic in such work. 

Editing and selection is by its nature eclectic, but also electric, you will get a shock every now and then by the juxtaposition of words. It’s also vast, as it takes you from Japan, through the Philippines to Egypt, in the shadow of the first tree, through Wales, Virginia and Waco in Texas. I stopped by an Unnamed Brook in Meredith, New Hampshire, listened to Mozart in 1791, and realized how loneliness shapes chaos. And then rested, as the final poems filled the final pages. 

In the selection for this quarter, the first of this year, walk slowly, savor each word, and if necessary, retrace your steps in case you’ve missed a moment of pure Welsh Spring. It would help if, while you read, you kept company with a cup of Cosmic Latte. Enjoy.

 Konrad Tademar Wilk, Los Angeles, California

California Quarterly, 2026

ABOUT THE EDITOR 

KONRAD TADEMAR WILK

Konrad Tademar 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. His 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 in Polish and English, listed below are out of print.

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 30 years. In 2020, he joined the Board of Directors of the California State Poetry Society, as one of the Editors of the California Quarterly. He is also an active member of Helena Modjeska Art & Culture Club and was a member of Krak Poetry Group in Los Angeles while it was still active. 

Additionally, he is a founding member of the Pecan Pie Organization, dedicated to artistic promotion and stage performances.  Mr. Wilk 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. Personal web site: tademar.com. 

Chapbooks:  Agrest – and other poems (23 poems , 2001); November Sonnets (22 sonnets, 2002); Mnemonic Sonnets (1997); Belgian Waffles (2001); The Rose Petal  (14 sonnets, 1997); Samizdat z Los Angeles (21 sonnets, 2024); Troika (27 poems, 2024).  

Books in preparation: Prometheus (a 500-page novel); three collections of poems -Harlequinade, Order of Magnitude, and Anahit and Artemisia, and the second edition of November Sonnets, expanded to over 50 sonnets.

Poems in magazines: Three issues of the Citadel – 1992, 1998, 2006; about 60 poems and stories in Angie’s Diary, sonnets in Poetry Letter (featured poet in No. 1 of 2024), California Quarterly, vol. 49, no. 1, Spring 2023. 

THE FRUIT OF THE BLUE TREE

Know truth when it co-mingles with laughter, freely

Like honey added to hot tea, sugar melting —

—in the mouth… white stones to walk on across space-time

For she kisses as if she is gasping for air

And I take the fruit from the blue tree, half dreaming

Half knowing what has befallen me, the clocks stop

I can hear her heart beating, feel her blood rushing

Sense the fire beneath her skin kindling my flesh

There is no water now to quench the thirst, pure flame

It consumes us, and then I hold on to the space

A precious moment lost in between breaths, quiet

Solitude of sacred words, what now do I know?

What do the branches hold? Taste of the fruit lingers

I sit beneath the tree, with the storm raging on….

July 28, 2024 - For “Engarde”

Konrad Tademar Wilk

Los Angeles, California

NEWSBRIEFS NO. 1 OF 2026, SPRING 2026

by Maja Trochimczyk

The first issue of the California Quarterly in the anniversary year of our great Republic, celebrating its first quarter of the millennium has a suitable cover with a photo of a patriotic balloon floating up into a clear, azure sky (“Freedom” by Maja Trochimczyk). “Liberty” for those who forgot, is the core value listed in the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America, approved by 13 former colonies on 4 July 1776: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

These words were amended several times. First, to expand the definition of “men” from white land-owners to all men who are citizens, after abolishing slavery (the 13th Amendment to the Constitution, 1865) and expanding citizenship to former slaves. Then, to implicitly add “women” to that definition of “all men… created equal” (the 19th Amendment to the Constitution, 1920). The definitions of rights continue to be honed and clarified as our pioneering Constitution remains the model for the free World, the paragon of freedom. The reality is imperfect, still plagued by corruption and fraud. But real.

     

At California State Poetry Society, fully independent from any other society as of 31 December 2025, we also adhere to our certain “unalienable rights.” First: the right to publish, read and promote the best poems that we can find in California and elsewhere. Second: the right of the Editor of each issue of the California Quarterly to select poems based on their personal taste and interests, and adhering to their vision of excellence, not political ideology, as the main principle of this choice. Third, the right of our Contest Judges – Alice Pero who oversees all Monthly Poetry Contests and a different Judge invited every year to adjudicate our Annual Poetry Contests – to select and honor the best poems on the basis of their personal criteria of excellence, without undue and unnecessary intervention or influence of the Board, CQ Editors or anyone else. 

I described these principles in part in an interview published by Duotrope concerning the editorial principles of the California Quarterly. In response to a question: “What sets your publication apart from others that publish simi lar material?” I wrote: We seek to publish California poets, and to focus on positive, inspirational, and inspired poetry of technical and linguistic mastery, devoid of platitudes, banalities, and silly ideologies, like climate change and other such nonsense. We avoid political themes and seek to celebrate the richness and diversity of human life, with a full scope of emotions and experiences, as well as the joy and beauty of the natural world. If you write rants, screeds, and complaints, please do not submit to us. But if you want to commemorate greatness, describe inspiration, especially with art and the natural world, and if you fondly remember the past, think of the California Quarterly. 

Another question, “How much do you want to know about the person submitting to you?” received the following response: We are not interested in cover letters, bios, or any background information. Only the poems - they speak for themselves. Each editor has a different taste and picks what they love, so the issues are quite diverse. We have a Buddhist, Catholic. and an agnostic among us, and we also invite guest poets, such as Deborah P Kolodji who filled her issue with various haiku, haibun and related genres. While discussing submissions, I described the three-month submission windows (January-March for issue no. 2, etc.) and explained: We prefer Submittable, though mail, and uploads to our website are also accepted. We receive about 600 poems to pick about 55-57 per issue, so we are quite selective. It is best to have poems that fit on one small page and the lines are not too long, so they do not wrap around. i.e., about 20 lines - the best length, up to 80 lines - acceptable. 

Finally, the question “What do submitters most often get wrong about your submissions process?” received the following answer: They submit garbage with profanities, drug/alcohol abuse, or smut. Automatic rejection. Occasional f-bombs may be appropriate, but regular use indicates a definite lack of talent. The poets submit without including names, addresses, and emails and then their work cannot be reviewed. They submit and then withdraw their work, even though it clearly says in our submission instructions that we do not accept simultaneous submissions.

Previously published poems are welcome in our second quarterly publication, the Poetry Letter issued as a PDF attached to an email, posted on our website in PDF format and on the blog in two parts.  The Poetry Letter No. 4 of 2025 presented selected haiku by Deborah P Kolodji, a well-known poet and member of the CSPS who edited one issue of the California Quarterly, Vol. 49, No. 4 in the Winter of 2023; she died in 2024. Recently, the California State Poetry Society received an anonymous donation in her memory, for which we are incredibly grateful. Debbie’s haiku were published in different anthologies and journals, they were chosen by her son Sean Kolodji, plus those from the CQ. With her talent, dedication, and ability to nurture others as editor and poetry event organizer, Debbie will be greatly missed. 

The other “feature” of the Poetry Letter consisted of poems about classical music, especially piano performances of Chopin and Paderewski. Two poems come from online submission by Brady Rhoades of Fullerton, California, and book reviews rounded up the issue. The illustrations were paintings by Andrzej Kołodziej (d. 2025) whose artwork also graced the cover of the CQ, Vol. 51, No. 4. 

            

PERSONALIA. The Chair and Judge of Monthly Contests, Alice Pero had a poem published in the CA Poets in the Schools anthology "I'm Here to Change the World" and three of her students also had poems in the anthology. Two of her poems were published in Winter 2025 California Quarterly. She resumed teaching at The Fair Oaks School in Pasadena after several months hiatus. 

One of our California Quarterly Editors, Nicholas Skaldetvind continues his doctoral studies at the University of New Mexico. His recent publication include articles in Tupelo Quarterly, IYYU Mozaika, and Restless Messengers, and poems in Open Doors Review and The Poet’s Billow. He was recently awarded the Larry Morris Memorial Scholarship to continue researching American poets and their spiritual practices. 

CSPS President Maja Trochimczyk was honored with the 2025 Polonia Award by the Polish American Congress of Southern California for 30 years of volunteering in service of Polish American community and its organizations. Her book Paderewski Essays & Poems, published in 2025, includes one of her poems among 52 dedicated to the great pianist, composer, statesman, and philanthropist Ignacy Jan Paderewski (1860-1941). These English-language poems were preserved in archives and written mostly in 1890-1940 by poets from the U.K. Scotland, Ireland, Australia, Canada, and the U.S. The book also features four essays by Trochimczyk about Paderewski’s poetic portraits and two about his reception by female audiences that worshiped him not just as a celebrity, but as an “archangel” and an “immortal.” These poetic portraits of the pianist were quite different from those penned by Polish writers. Like snails, poets everywhere carry "shells" of language and national/ethnic experience...

Maja Trochimczyk, CSPS President

PUBLISHING OPPORTUNITIES WITH CSPS

CALIFORNIA QUARTERLY (CQ)

The CQ accepts submissions via Submittable.com and by mail (for poets without email & internet access). Submission requirements: 

• Name, address, and email address on every page of every poem; 

• One-page poems are best; a two-page maximum for any poem 

• Email address or, for mail submissions without emails, SASE with sufficient postage for requested response 

• No biographies or résumés, as only the poems are judged 

• The poems must be original unpublished work of the poet 

• Six poems per submission, max.one submission per quarter.

• Foreign poems with translations are encouraged 

Poems are not returned, so keep copies, if mailing! Simultaneous submissions are NOT accepted as of January 1, 2023. Poems considered for a given issue are generally collected during the previous calendar quarter. Upload or submit only one set of six or fewer poems per calendar quarter; poems without names and addresses of poets will not be considered. 

Payment consists of one copy of the California Quarterly; all rights remain with the poet. Upload poetry submissions via the Submittable link on our website, californiastatepoetrysociety.org. You may also go directly to:  californiastatepoetrysociety.submittable.com/submit, or send poems by mail (if you have no email) with an SASE to: CQ Editors, Post Office Box 4288  Sunland, CA 91041-4288. 

CSPS POETRY LETTER

The CSPS Poetry Letter, (Online ISSN 2836-9394; Print ISSN 2836-9408) posted on our website, blog and emailed to poets, is a venue for previously published or award-winning poems that otherwise might not see re-publication due to restrictions on previously published works in the poetry world. 

You may submit poems and poetry book reviews to CSPS Poetry Letter through email to Editor, Maja Trochimczyk, maja@moonrisepress.com, or by mail to: CSPS Poetry Letter,  Post Office Box 4288, Sunland, California 91041-4288

All balloon photos by Maja Trochimczyk from International Balloon Fiesta in Albuquerque, New Mexico, October 2025, presenting over 800 hot-air balloons and about 80 smaller, unmanned balloons.

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.