Fascination

Artists from Bulgaria . Gregorij and Tseno

2012-02-02T10:23:00.000-08:00

Most of the members of International Neighbors Club know that George (Georgii) , is a painter.
Some of us saw his work at Linda's home during the "Christmas Party 2011" .
The wall painting has a magic charm.

We know a little about his father, who is also an artist.
Tseno Tsenow, as I learned some time ago , is a well known Bulgarian sculptor.
One day Georgi brought me the book with a lot of pictures of his father works.
I decided to share some of those with you. I hope you will enjoy it .

Artist at work.

Sofronii Vrachanski Bulgarian national hero, canonized as a saint by the Bulgarian Ortodox Church on 31 December 1964.

I think that being a member of our International Neighbours Club gives us the great opportunity to learn about other people and other cultures.

Houghton- Hancock Bridge

2012-01-26T17:19:00.000-08:00

The Portage Lake Lift Bridge , officially the "Houghton–Hancock Bridge", connects two cities, across Portage Lake.

.

The original bridge was a wooden swing bridge .
The construction began in the spring 1875 and was finished in the spring 1876. Bridge was replaced by steel swing bridge in 1901.
In 1959 at a cost of 11 (or13) million dollars . This bridge is unusual. It is lift bridge . Middle section is capable of being lifted from four feet clearance over the water to 100 feet. Boats can pass underneath.

The Bridge is the world's heaviest and widest double-decked vertical lift bridge.
The lower deck of the bridge was originally open to rail traffic, but this level is now a road and it is raised up to road level in the summer for cars. It is lowered in the winter, when ice prevents boats, so that snowmobile traffic can enter under the roadway.

Beauty of the wintry landscape

2012-01-24T18:10:00.000-08:00

The Journey

2012-01-20T20:05:00.000-08:00

We are driving a comfortable car
passing by the last sign of human Civilization-
a satellite dish and gas station.

In front of us Rocky Mountains
Mysterious shadows of the clouds rest on the rocks grey-green and brown.
Silence. No one is here-neither man nor animal.
The stone-still, deserted space. Deathlike, eternal silence.
We walk , we climb upward against the sky.
We are proud reaching the Pioneers trail.
We hope the sun will be our guide,we believe that we deserve...

Then
the dark shadows are deeper, sun light dims and fades.
The first peal of thunder reaches our ears multiplying in echos.
The sky flashes the fire.

The powerful mountains came alive with the storm.

We small, weak cowards run down overcame by fear.
We run to the car, our shelter.
We the People, children of the present age , defeated by Nature.

Invocation

2012-01-13T19:58:00.000-08:00

O Lord
help me to understand the World
with its suffering and its struggle,
and help me not to curse
when I'm distressed.

O Lord,
look at the hungry children dying
among the richness and satiation
and help me to be sensitive,
when I'm prosperous.

O Lord,
teach me how to forgive disloyalty,
betrayal of trust by those whom I love,
and help me to b strong enough
when I'm dolorous.

O Lord,
hear out the prayers of the sinners
who want to be closer to you,
and help me to keep my faith firm
in those moments when I doubt.

O Lord...

Poetry

2012-01-12T20:16:00.000-08:00

Poets write about birds.

Flowers are described in many ways.

It would take volumes to relate about shades of sky,

and semi-tones of water.

Poets indite verses about trees andbushes,

butterflies above the grass,

high mountains and valleys

and semi-tones of smells.

Poetry talks of love and hate,

tears and smiles are its subjects,
art and artist who create it
dancers, pianists, acrobats...

But who writes about woman
entangled into daily grayness of duties?

Snow, snow and more snow

2012-01-12T12:11:00.001-08:00

The Miniature

2012-01-08T19:48:00.000-08:00

Home
warm, lightful, delightful
allures, attracts, calls.
Fresh bread smells.
Home - tranquil harbour.

Woman
charming, glamorous,fragile.
Stires, bewiched, creates.
Involved in thousand of duties
with confidence and belief
that the fortune of the World
lies in her small hands

Wintry sky at the sunset

2012-01-06T14:53:00.000-08:00

Hancock, January 6, 2012 at 5:25 PM

Wintry Tryst

2012-01-05T19:46:00.000-08:00

It was cold.
A heavy storm passed by.
My hands were about to freeze.
My hair was silvery with frost.

But my heart, my heart was warm.
The blood in my veins was on fire.
The words of love were sweet
and roses he brought were so red .

The stars in the sky, majestic trees,
the sleigh- bells and sleighing
seemed splendid to me, and...

It happend years ago...
Once upon a time...
Could it all have been a dream?

Hancock, February 1989

International Neighbors Club Christmas Party

2011-12-15T16:15:00.000-08:00

Marco Island -impressions

2011-12-14T19:26:00.000-08:00

The water doubles
the beauty
of island tropical garden.

Those who saw the sunset
over the Gulf of Mexico
will it remeber forever.

The ibises -

white cloud over our house

are ready to rest

on the green lawn

after their journey.

Under grapefruit tree
The bougainvillea blossoms
Shine in the sun.

Under high, blue sky
boats in marina
Are longing for the open sea
.

Miracle

2011-11-20T10:20:00.000-08:00

Watch this miracle.
From the sky they fall,
thousands, millions tiny, white stars.

All are different one from another.
This is snow.

Watch this miracle.
It covers dirtiness,
It covers grayness,
It covers ugliness.

Watch this miracle.
In sunbeams of noon, sparkle diamonds,
In sunset, crimson rubies.
In silver moon light - blue aquamarines.
What a richness .

All these precious stones surround you.

But don’t take them, don’t touch them .
I warn you.
They will disappear.

Thanksgiving

2011-11-18T20:04:00.000-08:00

I walk into the forest,
I climb up the mountains,
I watch the overflow of ocean
I admire the blue sky above
and
I thank you God.

In early morning of the spring,
I listen to the choir of returning birds.
In the hot, sunny day of summer
I breathe in a sweet hay smell
and
I thank you God.

When I watch the colorful trees in the fall,
when I catch the last beams of sun,
when I revere the white mircle of first snow,
when I warm up by the fire on a wintry day
I thank you God.

O Lord ! o God ! O Creator!
Do not reject my thanksgiving.

I know

my words are so poor
against all the beauty of nature
and bountiful life you created.

I know your graciouness

O Lord! O God! O Creator!
Do not reject my thanksgiving.

Linda's poem

2010-10-16T14:59:00.000-07:00

Linda Dresch of Hancock, Michigan, wrote a poem to celebrate our wedding anniversary. I like her poem and asked Linda for permission to publish it in my blog.

How easy it was to launch a life together:
With youth’s confidence :
To leap into life propelled
By primal , pounding impulses,
To kiss, to learn each secret trick
and share a nest.

We suffered disappointments, yes,
and losses, too, nothing new
in what seemed heaven.

But unexpected joys and triumphs
and one live jewel that outshined all came to us
and multiplied by two.

Now we toast year 52 when years became like weeks and our pace smooths, like scenes in slow motion,
More graceful somehow.
Days like a minuet-
Coffee, email, breakfast, a walk, a book with music,
lunch, write perhaps ,coffee at 4:00
Quest for dinner.

A thousand of pictures cannot
capture the world we share-the beauty, the wonder, the friends, the love.
We choose to travel together
To intertwine our lives even tighter as we go round the sun one more time, sounds only a little dimmer, but joy purer and purer.

We have a good life!

Thank you Linda for the friendship and the beautiful poem:-)

Interview with Lida Pelc, a poetess from Copper Country

2010-08-11T14:17:00.000-07:00

written by Sylvia Casabianca for Marco Eagle magazine . Published in Florida)

Ryszarda Lida Pelc found in this country her gusto for writing poetry. She was a high school teacher in Poland before coming to the United States for the first time in 1985.
Pelc’s husband Karol had been invited by the Michigan Technological University as a guest professor.

“They invited Karol to stay and eventually he got his tenure,” Pelc said. The couple settled down in Houghton, a small town located in the Keweenaw Peninsula, a thin strip of land embraced by Lake Superior in the northern part of Michigan State.

Pelc, who had a master’s degree in liberal arts from the University of Wroclaw, opted for staying home at the beginning. She needed to face a challenging task: starting a new life in a new land, in a new type of society and speaking in a foreign language.

“We were lucky,” she said. In addition to the small town flair, “the place had an international flavor and I had the chance to meet many people.”

Pelc recalls the traditional Parade of Nations, a celebration of diversity that starts in Hancock, located on the north shore of the Portage Lake Canal, and crosses the bridge into Houghton, ending at the Dee Stadium. The annual event features multi-ethnic performances and international cuisine and usually close to 5,000 people attend.

Soon after her arrival, Pelc enrolled in Spanish and drama classes and became part of the rich university life.

“I joined many clubs — the University Women’s Club, the Home Study Club and the International Neighbors Club,” she said.
Then, she found that writing poetry in English seemed to be a good avenue to improving her English, so Pelc enrolled in several creative writing classes also. One of her assignments, entitled Miracle, depicted her wonderment with snow:

Watch this miracle.
From the sky they fall,
Thousands, millions, tiny, white stars. (...)

After reading her poems in class, Pelc’s teacher Betty gave her a nod — the poems deserved to be submitted to a contest, the teacher said.

“I asked my friends to read the poems and tell me what they thought,” Pelc said. “They all encouraged me to enter the contest.”

In 1989, she published, through a small local press, her first collection of about thirty poems, entitled Fascination.Her blog gives account of her published poems, which have been in nine anthologies such as “American Poetry Anthology 1990” (The American Poetry Association), “Great Poems of the Western World,” “The Best Poems of 1996,” (National Library of Poetry), and “ Songs of Honor” (Noble House 2006).

Pelc has had the opportunity to present her poems to different audiences and every time she has given a recital, she says, “Thanks to Betty I can read my poems,” acknowledging the encouragement received from her teacher.

Coming from a country of great writers
“First I need to be moved by something,” Pelc explained about the process of producing her poetry.
Writing poetry in her native language, Polish, started only later, after she started to feel comfortable writing in English.
When wondering why, she thinks that the quality of the writing of the Polish poets had her somewhat intimidated.
Among those poets that she looked up were 1980’s Nobel Prize in Literature, Czesław Miłosz, “who with uncompromising clear-sightedness voices Man’s exposed condition in a world of severe conflicts,” and 1996’s Nobel Wisława Szymborska, “that with ironic precision allows the historical and biological context to come to light in fragments of human reality.” (www.nobelprize.org)

Other favorite writers for Pelc are Polish poets Adam Bernard Mickiewicz, who lived in the 19th century, and Jan Twardowski, who died in 2006. Also American poet Robert Frost, who died in 1963.

“I thought I would never be as good as them,” Pelc said.

Poland produced two other Nobel Literature Prizes, Henryk Sienkiewicz who received the Nobel in 1905, and Władysław Reymont, Nobel prize in 1924.

The source

Pelc, who has travelled with her husband from Michigan to the western states three times, finds traveling inspiring.

“I write mostly about nature,” Pelc said. “Like when I wrote about the beauty of snow or when I write about the beauty of a landscape.”

She dedicated her poetry book “The Vigil” (1991) to her husband, who talked about the natural beauties found in this country.

“My American adventure started many years before I came to this country,” Pelc said. “Karol was a visiting scholar and in one of his trips to Phoenix University he went to visit the Grand Canyon in Arizona. His first words when he came back home were: ‘I have to take you to the Grand Canyon; you have to see this.”’

Certain life events have also inspired Pelc’s writing.

One poem was inspired by a man she saw on an empty road when in one of their trips, the couple was approaching Mesa Verde, Colo.

It was snowing and they had seen a sign posted on the road warning people not to pick up hitchhikers. The couple didn’t stop the car when they saw the man on the road and Pelc kept thinking, who was the guy, why had they obeyed the sign, maybe he was just a native from Mesa who needed a ride…

When Pelc arrived to her destination, she sat in front of the computer, or as she puts it, “in front of that blue empty space” and began to write.

Only in seldom occasions she writes with a pen directly on a piece of paper.

“I did that especially when we travelled to Japan,” she said. That was when she started to write Haiku (minimalist) kind of poems, like the following three-line poem written in 2005 after visiting the Japanese city of Hikone:

The autumn wind

Lovingly caresses the Japanese maple tree.

It blushes.

“I took the most important features of a moment, capturing the impressions in a brief poem,” Lida explained.

Recitals

One day of 2003, Pelc received a call from an advisor of The Turquoise Art Gallery in Hancock asking if she had written any poems about rain. The gallery was planning to put together Purple Rain, an interdisciplinary art show, to be presented in the fall. When Pelc said she had not written about the topic, the advisor insisted, “Can you do it?”

Although Pelc was not sure, she agreed to give it a try. She saw it as an opportunity to write something new.

“Two days later it started to rain. I was listening Chopin’s preludes and the poem was born,” she said. The central idea of the poem is a dialog with the famous Polish musician, whose story she knows “almost by heart.”

In her poetry, Pelc combines heart and intellect.

I can picture you dear Frederic

Even though I am in place afar from that Spanish island.

The reader needs to know that Frederic is, of course, Chopin, and the island is Majorca (or Mallorca) where, already very ill of tuberculosis, the composer spent months in an abandoned, leaky monastery. And Majorca is a very rainy place.

In this poem there is an allusion not only to Chopin himself, but also to his companion, the great French writer George Sand (born Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin):

I see your face

It seems to me whiter than a paper on the piano

You are tense, so tense

Maybe it is caused by a morning quarrel with George Sand

Who is your blessing and damnation?

(Oh, she is your blessing and damnation!)

Pelc talked about the conflicting relationship that composer and writer had for almost eight years. The poem continues picturing Chopin as a lonely soul in the rainy Majorca:

I can picture you

While I am listening to your immortal music,

While I am listening to the sound of rain.

While I am listening to prelude:

Profound sound of lonely souls.

“I am playing with my knowledge,” she explained, adding that the reading of this poem would require the reader to know some history.

Chopin’s Prelude was not the only poem created for Purple Rain. The show was produced by Sevil Soyer, artist and advisor to the Gallery, and it included an installation, poetry, music and special effects by seven artists from different disciplines. She also wrote Fleeting Rain, Rainy Season and Purple Rain for that occasion.

“I always have another person reading my poems,” she said, explaining that she does so because of her accented English. At the gallery, the narrator was Joe Kirkish.

“I was prepared”

As a teacher of Polish language in her country of origin, Pelc taught not only grammar and writing but also humanities and literature.

“I was prepared [to write],” Pelc said. “I had the know-how and I knew great literature.”

Many of her poems come from observation of people, places or architecture.

“So, it’s not necessary to wait for the muse,” she said. Pelc seldom uses rhythm in her poems and many of them are humoresque. “The ending of my poems usually has a switch. I suddenly come to a conclusion that I didn’t think of in the beginning.”

Some of her writing has been about Polish-Americans.

“I was eager to know what third or fourth generation Polish-Americans would say about their Polishness,” Pelc said. “Many of them came from families that had been displaced in the 19th century.”

When she was interviewing Polish-Americans, she met Kathy who became her friend.

“She had told me that her uncle was a friend of the Polish Pope John Paul II (Karol Józef Wojtyła),” Pelc said. “Then she called me one day and asked if I wanted to come to Rome with her, mentioning that maybe we would be allowed to see the Pope. I had been several times to Italy but never to Rome and I thought this was a great occasion.”

The director of the house where they were staying in Rome came to them the day after their arrival to say that they could attend a 6 a.m. mass with the Pope.

“There were probably 40 people and after the mass the Pope went to each person,” Pelc recalled. “He approached Kathy, and his secretary introduced her as someone coming from the U.S. Then they introduced me, I don’t know why, as a professor from Poland. He asked me if I spoke Polish and we had a brief conversation. I don’t know what the subject was, but knowing Polish there and then, our mother tongue, it was great. I can’t describe the feeling.”

Pelc is also a freelance author and thinks that writing requires discipline. Her essays, short stories and articles have appeared in several Polish language journals in the United States, Canada, Japan, Spain, Switzerland and Belgium, she said. Pelc has also been published on the Internet. She likes to write about her travels to different countries, about people she has met and also book reviews. Some of her essays, poetry, travel stories and photographs are accessible in her blog at lidapelc.blogspot.com.

“I am very fond of the Internet,” she said, praising the opportunities that it offers to writers.

Pelc became a part time resident of Marco Island in 1993, where she bought a condo. At the beginning she traveled south by herself in the winter because her husband was still working. But she would fly back home to have her “white Christmas.”
Pelc is a member of The American Institute of Polish Culture in Miami, Marco Island Foundation for the Arts, Calumet Theatre Company, and Copper Country Community Art Council in Michigan.

© 2010 Scripps Newspaper Group — Online

The Sunset .

2010-01-23T09:35:00.000-08:00

http://pelcinterlec.com/

Lake Biwa

2009-06-11T19:18:00.000-07:00

I know
Someday I will miss Lake Biwa,
I will be longing for Chikubushima.
From my memory I will draw
the shape of sails, colorful butterflies,
and the white fishermen`s vessels
under the blue, water alike, sky.

In my dreams
I will see mountains on the horizon
at dawn silvery, golden in the sunset.
Echo
will repeat the songs of birds flying above white castle.
Someday I will miss Lake Biwa.
I know.

Copyright by Ryszarda Lida Pelc

(The poem has been published by the National Library of Poetry in anthology entitled “Best Poems of 1996,” it has also been translated into Japanese).

Impressions

2009-05-27T19:54:00.000-07:00

Smooth kaki fruits,
(golden persimmons)
Shine bright
against grey clouds on the sky.

Back home watching snow
I will recall
Cherry blossom
In Saimyo-ji garden.

Hikone, Japan 1992

Room with a view

2009-05-27T19:19:00.000-07:00

I have a room with a view.
Through the window I see
the mountains
covert by transparent wail of the fog,
green paddy rice,
the shiny roofs .

I have a room with a view;
I watch
the pinkish-golden sky
at the mornings,
and blushing clouds, rolling over the sky
after sunsets.

However
(I have to confess)
my joy is not complete.

Oh, silly me !

in my room with a view
at Japanese hospital
I should feel happier.

The pain of my leg? It is no excuse.

I broke only the leg-
Thanks God , nobody broke my heart .

Hikone, Oct.30, 2005

The Spring Humoresque

2009-05-19T20:30:00.000-07:00

The lake is free from icy chain
The streams awake, the light is bright,
The sky is blue.
The sun warms up the bones and hearts.

The winter passed away.

The smell of soil, the first spring rain
The songs of returning birds,
The grass aroma, the warm breeze...
Spring brings the joy of life again.

The winter passed away.

The wintry blues, the wintry glooms melted like snow,
sunk into ground, dissolved in the air.
The bells, the children laugh, the whispers of girls ( who are in love)
have the same, joyful tune.

Hurrah…
The winter passed away.
O yes!!!!
The winter passed away.

Copper Country, Michigan April 24, 1990

Copper Country. Four seasons

2009-05-19T19:54:00.000-07:00

Looking at Saint Patrick's Parade

2009-03-09T19:39:00.000-07:00

Green flags, green hats, green dresses.
Reminders of Irland's green fields.
Marching bands with their golden trumpets and trombones.
The exciting , beating roll of drums.

Young people march.
Young people have fun.
They dance on the streets,
they sing for Patrick's sake.

In Irland -in Dublin ,
in Florida -in city of Marco,
in New York, Chicago and Detroit
parade, parade , parade.
It's Saint Patrick's Parade.

Somewhere on the Highway

2008-08-04T09:06:00.000-07:00

We drove. From far we noticed a point.
What is that?
A tree? A horse? The rocks?
On the road? At this time?
A man!
A man?Impossible!
But it was. He walked in endless space.
I remember him and will remember for ever, perhaps.
Who was he? Who could walk alone between the sky and the earth
across his dead land of dry sage-brush
with the sand of the road in his mouth?
Who had the courage to walk in the swelter of southern sky?
Who was he ,who had the strenght to stride into the horizon?
The descendant of those punished with the exiles fate?
The child of the mysterious Anasazi
who came, who knows whence?
And moved, who knows where to?
I don't know also who he was.
We didn't stop to ask him or offer a ride.
We obeyed the road sign:
"PRISON AREA.
DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS"

On the road to Baraga Shrine

2008-07-18T19:42:00.000-07:00

On the road to Hovenweep

2008-07-13T19:59:00.000-07:00

The silvery, grey-green fields
submerge into space,
bitter scent of sage brush,
and dust of the country road.

The colorful peacock on the fence,
the herd of sheep in the mist of rocks,
brown, wild horses graze,
mute, lonely bird above.

We sunk in the silence,
we are lost in thought.
With nostalgia, our fellow traveler,
we are facing the ancient ruins of Hovenweep.

The Feelings

2008-07-09T19:59:00.000-07:00

Love
passionate, inflamed, burning.
Love
is like a fire.
Love
wings,seizes, bewitches.
Love
comes and goes away,and dies.
Don't you think love is like a butterfly?
Beautiful and fragile.

Hankering
bitter,endless,painful,decays.
Never stops.
Hankering.

Pistachio Ice Cream

2008-04-18T18:18:00.000-07:00

When I was ten years old
I had been reading
about pistachio ice cream.

Oh,

how nicely it was described.
I felt it's smothness, colness, sweetness.

Now...

I'am eating pistachio ice cream
green, sweet and cool.

And I'm thinking surprisingly
"it was much , much more tasty in my dreams"

Waltz

2008-03-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

To my ears melody comes
slowly, slowly
sweet, harmonious, delightful tones
surrounded me.
I submerge into the waltz.

Waltz helps me look back to the past.
Waltz takes me to Vienna.

Johann Strauss
plays in the city park.
Lightness, delicacy of violin.

Bewitchment, charm, fascination.
Vienna.
Blue Danube.
World pirouetting in the waltz.

Remember Hikone

2008-03-15T19:04:00.000-07:00

The autumn wind
Lovingly caresses the Japanese maple tree.
It blushes.

(December 17,2005)

Back home watching snow
I will recall
Cherry blossom
In Sainyo-ji garden.

(December 4,2004)

Smooth kaki fruits,
(golden persimmons)
Shine bright
under grey clouds on the sky.

Hikone, Japan

Chopin's Prelude

2008-03-04T09:08:00.000-08:00

I can picture you, dear Frederic.
You are there in an immense , half dark room
With a stained- glass window
Covered with the curtains of rain.

I see your face.
It seems to me whiter then a paper on the piano.
You are tense, so tens…
Maybe it is caused by a morning quarrel with George Sand,
who is your blessing and damnation ?
(Oh, she is your blessing and damnation !)

Maybe your sadness is caused
by the dark clouds rolling over the sky,
hanging over the exuberant, tropical gardens of Majorca
and the endless, monotonous trickle of rain,
the metallic sound of drops striking wide leaves of palms?

You listen to the sound of rain,
Your lonely soul is singing the prelude.

I can picture you dear Frederic
Even though I am in place afar from that Spanish island .
I can picture you
while I am listening to your immortal music,
while I am listening to the sound of rain.
While I am listening to prelude :
profound sound of lonely souls.

The Forest.

2008-03-01T19:44:00.000-08:00

How to describe the forest
when changes are faster then thought?
Look at the forest in the spring, for example,
A greenness there is in varied shadows,
When the sun throws light among the leaves
How to picture the forest with all those colors
Yellow, pale-green ,red, purple or brown
Believe me
Even on the rainy day the forest is worth being in.
The clouds throw millions of drops on the leaves,
and you admire the trees in their diamond necklaces.
The wind blows and tosses the trees to and fro.
The forest talks to you.

Listen.

In the rustle of branches you can hear the stories.
Stories about a man and about the earth,
about the past and the future.
Then,
Don’t try to describe the forest,
but try to understand the tale.

Connie

2008-02-29T14:33:00.000-08:00

Born in the heart of the country
she never grew up ( really).
Until now she remembers the tension
around the table at her home in Iowa
and ( because of that )
"I eat only twice a day" she confessed
(Thursday afternoon, August, 93)
lying on her back in the Holiday Inn swimming pool.

Mother of three, ( they grew up and are gone)
lives on the bank of Le Croix river, in Hudson, Wisconsin.
When she is done with her daily duties, voluntary jobs at hospital
and in the ticket office, with her writing
(she writes sitting on the floor; she never grew up)
when she is done with...God knows what else,

she perches on the balcony watching the white sails
on the river blue, gray, silvery, golden, red or pink
( depends on the mood of the sky and density of clouds)
she watches walkers, joggers, dogs passing, running by
and she is longing for her old home in the woods
( "sweet privacy" there was nobody around)

The girl from Iowa likes beef sandwiches
( she has eaten for 25 years in the same restaurant, nothing ever but beef sandwiches)
she likes silk flowers ; red roses and pink tulips which she bought one day
and decorated her living room with the fireplace and view...

She has girl friends ( of course) ;
one of them freezes credit cards in a jar full of salad dressing
( "This is the best way to avoid spending")
another brought stones, smooth, polished by water ( by how many years?).
The girl from Iowa, in her car le Baron, carries the stones
( in plastic bag, pink ribbon on)
and looking at them learns how to make life go smoothly...

This is The End of my story
about girl born in the heart of the Country,
about Connie, my friend from Iowa...

Dreams

2008-02-29T14:17:00.000-08:00

As a little girl I spent a lot of time looking at the mirror
and dreaming.
”I would like to be twenty years old
or eighteen at least”.

Time past by.

And again I’m dreaming
“I would like to be eighteen
Or twenty at least”.

Houghton, Michigan 1989

Fleeting Rain

2008-02-29T12:48:00.000-08:00

Rain!
Rhinestone strings of raindrops;
Drip,
Drop,
Rain.
Drip,
Drop -

Shines again.

Raindrops-
diamonds scattered on my lawn.

Hancock, October 7, 2003

Rainy season

2008-02-29T12:17:00.000-08:00

Rain.
Rain, rain day by day.
Day after day
Rain.

Melancholy
Plips, plops, plips, plops
Comes with rain
to rule, to reign here.

Drips, drops, drips
Day after day
Rain.

Melancholy and rain,
Two faithful companions
of mine.

Hancock, September 19, 2003

Purple Rain

2008-02-29T05:35:00.000-08:00

Happenings in the Keweenaw Peninsula
October 21, 2003

Text © 2003 Turquoise Gallery Press Release. Photos © 2003 Keweenaw Now.

HANCOCK -- The Turquoise Art Gallery in Hancock will be the scene of "Purple Rain," an Interdisciplinary Art Show, at 7 p.m. on Friday, Oct. 24. Produced by Sevil Soyer, artist and advisor to the Gallery, the live performance will include an installation, poetry, music and special effects by seven artists from different disciplines.

Soyer, creator of the installation, invited local artists to participate. Photographer and film critic Joe Kirkish, as narrator, will read three poems composed for "Purple Rain" by R. Lida Pelc of Hancock. Musician Melvin Kangas of Finlandia University will improvise kantele music for the event. Special rain effects produced by Omer Ahunbay and Hakan Ozer and a manifesto created by Soyer and Onay Sozer, professor of Philosophy at Istanbul University, will complete the program.

Sevil Soyer, artist and advisor to the Turquoise Gallery, begins the installation of "Purple Rain," an Interdisciplinary Art Show to be presented live in the Gallery on Oct. 24.
"The Turquoise Gallery's First Interdisciplinary Art Show offers a unique cultural event for the Upper Peninsula," Soyer said.

The audio portion of the program will be available on CD in the Gallery through Nov. 8, 2003. The CD is being provided through the courtesy of the Michigan Tech University Fine Arts Department.

"Purple Rain'' is Soyer's second interdisciplinary art project and her first in the United States.

Soyer performed her first interdisciplinary art show in 1993 at Yildiz Palace in Istanbul, Turkey. This world premier was produced by 40 people of different disciplines with the support of the Turkish Cultural Minister and local businesses. Yildiz Palace, a large palace of the Ottoman period, is now a museum. It was opened to the public for the first time during this performance. Soyer was the project owner, the creative director, the curator and one of the artists in that project.

After studying art in the Fine Arts Department of Mimar Sinan University, in Istanbul, Soyer earned a post-graduate degree and worked at the Venice Fine Arts Academy in Venice, Italy. She has had many personal and group exhibitions and has received many awards.

My thoughts wander,
wander
under grayish cloudy sky.

The weather is like my mood.

Suddenly
the heavy rain falls.
It’s raining hard,
you say ” it’s raining cats and dogs ”
we run,
we laugh and run.
Cascades of rain on us.

We find shelter under a sugar maple tree.
We listen to the sound of rain…

And then,
The rainbow in the sky above us,

and sunshine .

“The purple rain” I whisper .

Bewitched
We admire the rainbow and the rain.
In beams of the sunset-
the purple rain .

poem by R.Lida Pelc
Hancock, September 15, 2003

Lake Superior

2008-02-28T13:31:00.000-08:00

Lake Superior- enormous, huge. Runs to the horizon.
Overflows.
Rumbles like drumbeat of gigantic drums.
Superior…
I’m listening to the roar of waves, whistle of the wind.
I walk through overthrown trunks of death trees on the shore.
A nostalgia moons with me among the white birch trees.

A roar of waves brings memory of those moments,
which I’m carrying with me trough life and across the borders.
Memories about the Adriatic’s Pearl
- Ravenna,
where Theodora’s and Justinian’s dreams of glory
are expressed in colorful mosaics, the masterpiece of eternal art.

I recall the busy Boulevard in Nice
Facing the blue sea under the clear sky of the South.
I save in my memory the beauty of majestic Pacific Ocean
misty, mysterious, fascinating. Not peaceful at all;

The pictures of those places are alive in my memory.
My heart …
My heart belongs to the Baltic,
The sea of my mother land,
Where I first learned how to love the seas.

October 17, 1989

The Spring

2008-02-28T13:27:00.000-08:00

I bow toward the green blade of grass,
I skim the blooming apple branch with love,
I gaze with adoration at forget-me-nots
Which mirror the azure of the sky.

The purple bed of tulips on the lawn
Is a joy for my eyes and my heart,
The white shower of petals from the wild plum
Paves a path for me in the yard.

I like these moments of the spring
When admiration takes my breath away
I go into ecstasies over the flood of smells
I warm up in the golden sun.

“You are not so religious” my friend said once to me,
Perturbed by my absence in the church on Sunday.
She didn’t know that on that day
I went to the blossom garden to pray.

June, 1989

Remember Lake Biwa

2008-02-28T13:11:00.000-08:00

I know.
Someday I will miss Lake Biwa.
I will be longing for Chikubushima.
From my memory I will draw
the shape of sails, colorful butterflies,
and the white fishermen’s vessels
under the blue, water alike, sky.
I know.
In my dreams
I will see mountains on the horizon
at dawn silvery, golden in the sunset.
Echo
will repeat the songs of birds flying above white castle.
Someday I will miss Lake Biwa.
I know.

Islander's Confession

2008-02-28T12:53:00.000-08:00

To Karol

I have to confess my sins.
I`m guilty
of doing nothing
except
walking on the beach
crushing
shiny , dazzling , fragile shells
under my feet .

I have to confess
my guilt of doing nothing
but watching
dignified white egrets,
survivors of evolution- brown pelicans,
clattery, puffy, arrogant beggars – sea-gulls,
black and white, with orange bills- skimmers,
tiny, hasty, amusing sandpipers.

I’m guilty.
I do nothing
but admire the flying birds
under azure sky,
above the emerald mirror of shimmering waters

I`m guilty
of waiting for dolphins
hoping to watch them
while they chase school of fish
while they play in deep waters of the Gulf
while they jump high-
their dark, wet bodies reflect the sunbeams.

I confess;
I spend hours seating on the beach,
sifting the white, fine sand through my fingers
listening to the soothing sound of waves,

–the reminder of a long forgotten sound of water –

O yes! I was listening to that sound
while floating safely
in my mother womb
before I was born.

Marco Island, November. 30, 2003

To Caroline

2008-02-28T09:52:00.000-08:00

The world is so strange, my dear.
All things could happen.
A Polish grandma is writing poetry in English,
in place apart,
(two miles from "the end of the world")
and dedicates those poems to her granddaughter
who speaks French only.

Hancock, Michigan
May, 1989

Watching the Sea Gulls in Hancock Marina

2008-02-27T20:51:00.000-08:00

The bright sun in the cloudless sky
above ,
the trees in dresses painted in varied shades,
below,
the blue, transparent water touches the shore,
between-
the sea-gulls and I.
We watch each other.
The birds in white feathers are bright in the sunbeams.
They are sitting on the pillars,
the border stones.

How long was their trip? Where are their nests?
They are from here.
I am still the stranger .

2008-02-27T20:36:00.000-08:00

The Butterfly’s Dance

2008-02-27T17:45:00.000-08:00

I saw last summer a butterfly’s dance.
I adored its softness, perfection,
Its finesse.

The colorful butterfly
Shiny in the beams of sunset,
Tired of dance and daily journey
Sat on the grass and swung gently,
Swayed by the summer breeze.

The whisper of wild flowers
The buzz of wasps,
The bees drone
A twitter, chirrup of the flying birds-
composed the music.
The song of the summer bewitched us,
-the butterfly and me.

“I’m sorry, the day is going to end.
And summer too…

“And life…” –the butterfly whispered-
He roused.
He flew to the sky
He danced …
once more…

Ryszarda Lida Pelc

Spring in Maribor

2008-02-27T17:35:00.000-08:00

The Hesitation

2008-02-27T15:33:00.000-08:00

How to describe the new world in a foreign language?
How to express my own thoughts and feelings
In the circle of the alien people?

How to tell everything?
How to utter all what is important to me?
How to pronounce the admiration or the contempt?

How could I join the choir
and not sing out of tune
when I am the stranger?

Maybe I ought save my own, only world?
Maybe I should speak in my own mother tongue?
Maybe I have to be just who I am?

Maybe…
But how to live apart?

The Vigil

2008-02-27T15:03:00.000-08:00

Do you remember?
It still was dark, when trembling with chill we awoke.
The tepee, our shelter,
the sign from another time, another space, another world,
whitening in the night, pointed against the sky.

Do you remember?
We sat on the edge waiting, like sinners, for absolution.
We believed in the miracle of sunrise...

The Canyon rested motionless, stone- still.
Then...the sky turned pearl,
turned red,
submerged in gold.
The canyon repeated it after the sky
turned pearl,
turned red,
submerged in gold.

The canyon vivified.
The Sun brought back Grand Canyon to life.
Do you remember?
Yes, I do. Our faith was rewarded.

Ryszarda Lida Pelc
Hancock, Michigan 1989<