Poland – KensView

Poles Apart

In Ameryka, a Polish soul resides,
Yearning to find roots, yet bound by divides–
Longing to walk lanes of ancestral past,
To explore origins, reach them at last.

He pictures faces of his long-lost kin,
Ones who left Poland, those who stayed within.
He desires to walk the towns where they grew,
To learn how they lived, to feel what they knew.

Birthplace of Copernicus and Curie
Kociuszko, Chopin and Sobieski,
He dreams of a country, green and serene,
Of castles and churches, old and pristine.

Cold War shadows lingered, foiling sojourn
To the land of forbears, their tales to learn.
Opportunities missed, plans put on hold,
Power politics made mistrust unfold.

Old hostilities, the scars that remain
Kept a Pole by genes from breaking the chain.
Yet deep in his heart, a flame still burns bright,
Pining to connect, thirsty for insight.

From communist to budding fascist
People willing but unable to resist
Despite setbacks and challenges ahead
Their spirit persisted, was never dead.

But since elections brought freedom restored,
The call for a visit can’t be ignored.
He’ll relish pierogis and kielbasa,
Listen to polsku as voiced by Busia.

He looks forward to a new kinship built
So he may enjoy himself to the hilt
With plenty of occasions to explore
Poland’s wonders he’d been denied before.

There’s an old Polish wedding tradition
The parents perform at the reception.
They greet the bride and the groom
With rye bread as they enter the room
The bread is sprinkled with salt.
And with wine they also exalt.
With bread, they hope their children
Will never hunger or be barren.
With salt, they remind the couple
That life may at times bring trouble.
With wine, they wish for them years
Full of good health and many cheers.
They then embrace the twosome
To affirm their familial welcome.

Butterfly

One of my earliest recollections of childhood was that of a dream, and I remember it quite vividly. I was four going on five. At the time my mother worked half time in the morning and my father full time from four until midnight. I would take a nap from around one to three.

According to my mother, I always wanted to say goodbye to my father before he left for work. I would wake up crying if I realized I had missed the opportunity. In addition, there is something about our practicing Catholic family which impressed a very young me.

I remember one day worrying again that I would miss seeing my father off to work. I told my mother expressly, “Mom, wake me up BEFORE Daddy goes to work.” “Of course, of course, Kenny, I will,” my mother assured me. “Now go to sleep.” I sensed I was drifting off…

A frantic knock on our door startled me up.

Groggy from my slumber, I heard a voice yelling, “Can’t find it!” My mother echoed anxiously, “Can’t find it!?!” “Yes,” a man replied. It was a neighbor.

My mother took me by the hand and led me outside. It seemed very gray and gloomy. The clouds hung down as curtains. There were lots of people there outside with us. They were all looking up.

Floating high in the clouds was Mother Mary. She was just like the image I had seen on my Busia’s prayer card, only very much alive. She boomed, “I have lost a butterfly.” “A butterfly, oh my,” the crowd responded. “Go find it,” she commanded. “Otherwise, there would be no sun.”

The people around looked startled and frightened. “What will we do?” they asked. Then they started looking down the street, behind their houses, looking all around. It was quite frenzied.

After a while, I heard someone call out, “Gene! Gene!” They were pointing at my Daddy. He had suddenly popped out from behind a bush wearing a big grin.

Out from his hand rose a butterfly. I watched it ascend. We all looked up; and Mary, too, was smiling.

The sun came out… and I woke from my nap. My father was still home.

Dreams and Other Realities/Genesis

“Spokoj (be calm), Kennush, so you can have the best dreams,” Busia would often tell me as she tucked me in for naps while my parents were off working.

Dreams have always been important to me. They have served as regurgitations, amplifications, and sources of insight. My dreams have occasionally been predictive. But mostly, they have been imaginative grist and launching points for ruminations about personal experiences and reactions to events and the world at large, a sort of expressive impressionism.

“I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.” Vincent Van Gogh

Tag: Poland

Poles Apart

Bread, Salt, and Wine

Butterfly

Dreams and Other Realities/Genesis