Poems and Stories

All Poetic, Very Poetic...

(c) 2003 by Maja Trochimczyk

Yucca in San Gabriel Mountains, 2000.

Feeling Colors

Orange - watch it prick your fingertips
with needles of brightness -
dried apricots, shriveled bursts of sunshine

Red - a warm glow seen with eyes covered
by the palm of your hand -
darkly flickering comfort of home and hearth

The pain of whiteness - piercing light
too banal to be relished
when the snow melts in your mouth

A smooth, shiny, blue surface trembles
under the sole of your foot -
did sorrow slide into the water? Or is it the sky?

Brown, dark, soft, furry afterthought
touches your shoulder -
the breathing caress, clinging, whispering

Amazing stillness - all contours disappear
in pure black absence - forever?
Dawn will soon brighten your eyes

Hi! I'm a Canadian living in America, but I'm from Poland. It is a wild country: my brother once caught a tiger there... I just looked, the thing had claws!


So, since then, I often prefer to look and think, not catch tigers. Here are some things that I've seen. I've used some thoughts for my poems (the rest gets wasted, I guess).


without a name
wandering aimlessly
reeling from the glimpse
the contour of your body
I am Werther reborn
intoxicated by a silky touch
with an imprint of your eyes
hungry - dark - enormous
burnt into the memory
deep like a pool of honey
bottomless gold

mine are too blue
for the demon of lovers
to take us within

sparks of cosmic fire
scattered in the fields

Konwalie in Montreal, 1996.

Once Upon a Love

once upon a love
there was a smile
once, there was a glance
into a dance: swaying body
like willow's branches
in the wind

once I was small and happy
and ate wild strawberries
beside my house
(the yellow paint was peeling off
as usual)

now I look up the tree of July
the tree of my love
the tree of my sorrow
(full of bees)
and cry

without tears
in silence

Dead tree, Sequoia Forest, 1998.

Selling Nothing

He walked towards the circus,
the man selling nothing:
bunches of balloons dancing in the wind,
bags of cotton candy... Nothing.
Puffed up emptiness on a stick.
Simulacra of existence.

We don't need them.
We won't eat them.
We have our own.

Come to think of it - frankly -
that's what we are:
Vanity of Vanities
(long forgotten Song of Songs)
- not even sorrow -

Above the clouds in California, 1997.

When I am not working I like looking at birds and listening to their voices. I smell a lot of flowers during my walks. Leaves, especially with the sun shining through, are an endless fascination. So are dewdrops on the grass. Watching my kids play is great fun. But I no longer like to count. Instead we tell stories to each other. Here are some of mine:

Once upon a time there was a giant. His eyelashes were so huge that when he blinked he scratched the moon off the sky. He caught the falling moon in his hands and said: "Nice ball! Where is the basket?"

Another one:

Once upon a time there was a fish. It wanted to be a bird instead so it flew into a tree. But the tree was made of rubber, so it bounced off the tree and went to the moon. The moon had just been scratched off the sky, so the fish fell down, saying: "Am I singing, or what?"

California coast, 1998.

And another:

Once upon a time, there was no time, yet, but there was a fellow called Boob and he had a boat he called Boob, too. (Come to think of it, he called everything "boob" - but I digress). It was all perfectly clear to him, but others found it funny. Do you find it funny? I don't. In any case, Boob got offended and started to go fishing. Quite a lot. Actually, he never did anything else but go fish. He did it so much that he had to use fish for anything. He even smoked fish. That's right, he was a smoker, and smoked herring. How? He kept the head between the teeth and set the tail on fire, so it sort of looked like a cigar. Or did not. At least, he thought it did. He thought he was very cool with his smoked herring, that Boob who liked bobbing on the waves in Boob's Boob.

That's it, for now. Actually, I'm not interested in what you think about this, so do not send me any messages.

Never go back.

Roses in my garden, 1999.

Poems, stories and pictures copyright (c) 1996-2003 by Maja Trochimczyk.
Layout and scanning by Marcin Depinski.

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