Current Events, , ,

Second Annual Student Art Exhibit

Featuring VSA arts of New York City ‘Murals Program’ & NYS Alliance for Arts Education ‘Side by Side Program’ (a VSAarts Sponsored Program)

April 27 – May 8, 2009, Empire State Plaza – South Annex East Wall, Albany, NY

Opening Reception: April 29, 2009, 1:00 – 3:00 PM

VSA arts is proud to present this Collaborative Exhibit highlighting the artwork created by students in the NYC ‘Murals on Parade’ and ‘Side by Side’ programs.

VSA arts is an international, nonprofit organization founded in 1974 by Ambassador Jean Kennedy Smith to create a society where all people with disabilities learn through, participate in and enjoy the arts. For more information on VSA arts in NYS click here.

Poetry

April 15 – 20 Confessions by Sigitas Geda

I decided that I had experienced everything.
I had pretended to be an infant, a small child.
A young boy and a young girl.
A small childish god —“ Nothing.
I had pretended to be a bird.
With a bird’s eyes looked at Lithuania, at its ocean craters.
I had pretended to be priest, centaur, Strazdas, Jesus
Christ, Lithuania’s greatest poet, all people and all birds.
Charon, demiurge, playing with shells in the Baltic.
A mortal, caressing Dido in the ocean deeps with the whales.
Drunken Villon or Bilhana, raping the king’s underage daughter.
Cassandra, prophesying death.
Picasso, splitting bones.
Mad Holderlin, hungry only for silence.
Li Po with snow-covered flags of ancient China.
A raven, white, gathering nettles.
All the semblances, God, that you told me to take.
Now I want to be myself.
Fierce, dark, unforgiving.
Powerless, ill, noble.
Dying and resurrecting. So I can live.

Translated by Jonas Zdanys

wi_praying_hands_ckb_1jpg_copy

Pagalvojau, kad aŁ¡ viską patyriau.
Buvau apsimetęs kŁ«dikiu, maپu vaiku.
Maپu berniuku ir maپa mergaite.
Maپu vaikiŁ¡ku dievu —“ Niekuo.
Buvau apsimetęs paukŁ¡Äiu.
PaukŁ¡Äio akimis پiŁ«rÄ—jau į Lietuvą, į jos jŁ«rٳ kraterius.
Buvau apsimetęs kunigu, kentauru, Strazdu, JÄ—zum
Kristum, didپiausiu Lietuvos poetu, visais پmonÄ—mis ir paukŁ¡Äiais.
Charonu, demiurgu, پaidپiančiu kriauklÄ—mis Baltijoj.
Miruoliu, glamonÄ—jančiu Didonę jŁ«rٳ gelmÄ—j su banginiais.
Girtu Vijonu arba Bilhana, prievartaujančiu nepilnametę karaliaus
    dukrą.
Kasandra, pranaŁ¡aujančia پ٫tį.
Pikasu, skaldančiu kaulus.
IŁ¡protÄ—jusiu Helderlynu, trokŁ¡tančiu vien tylos.
Li Bo su apsnigtom vÄ—liavom senovÄ—s Kinijoj.
Varnele, balta, skinančia dilgėles.
Visais pavidalais, kuriais, mano dieve, liepei.
Dabar norėčiau bŁ«ti savim.
ٽiauriu, tamsiu, negailestingu.
Bejėgiu, sergančiu, tauriu.
MirŁ¡tančiu ir atgimstančiu. Tam, kad gyvenčiau.

Poetry

April 14 – Thoughts About Eternity by Kazys Boruta

After an unsuccessful trip to eternity
I returned to old Vilnius, my native city,
and put up in a flat built not long ago,
which looked like a coffin —“ its ceiling was so low,
while into the window like ghosts, eyes agog,
crept shadows from the ruins of an old synagogue.

On that first of a long line of sleepless nights
I fancied —“ the eeriest of nightmarish sights! —“
that the blocks of old houses had come alive
and the ruined old synagogue rose, revived,
and on its balcony, coloured blue,
rabbi Gaon was sitting anew.

“Rebe Gaon”, I addressed the man,
“Accept my apologies if you can
for interrupting your thoughts on eternity,
but I’d very much like, from the standpoint of modernity,
to talk of philosopher Maimonide’s ideas
which have long been upsetting my mental peace.”

I first came across them right after the war
when I met with a Jew who was old, tired and sore,
having gone through all deathcamps in Poland and Germany
and not flown as smoke from a crematorium chimney.
Facing a corner, in a cellar he sat,
plaintively chanting a prayer,
for he thought that, by some miracle,
he was the last Jew left anywhere,
and bemoaned the plight of his people.

Then we started talking
about Maimonide’s philosophy
according to which a man suffers
not for any fault of his own
but for all his people
and all its history.
I myself more than once thought the same
But dismissed it as quite impossible.
“Be so kind, o rebe Gaon,
—“ for you are a pillar of wisdom —“
tell me, can this really be true?”

Falling into thought, Gaon made no reply,
only, digging into a fat talmud,
sorrowfully waged his head,
returning to his eternity,
while I again found myself sighing and coughing
in a new flat, low-ceilinged like a coffin,
with the unsolved puzzle:
for what do men,
people,
and all mankind
suffer terrible torments
which never cease?

When spring came,
I wanted to talk again
with rabbi Gaon about the same subject,
but there, in the place where the ruins has stood
I saw children at play.
But after all, maybe so it should be,
maybe they are eternity,
and through them, life will come back to the old city?

Translated by Dorian Rottenberg

Poland - Polish - Polonia,

Dyngus Day in Buffalo and Polonia

From the Buffalo News: Dyngus Day a big hit in the heart of Polonia: Polish parade fills revelers, marchers with ethnic pride, hope for future

By 5 p. m. Monday, revelers stood six deep at Gibson and Sinkiewicz streets, which sounded and felt like a mini-Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

People in red T-shirts with white letters proclaiming —You bet your pierogis I’m Polish,— —Whip me, squirt me,— —Who stole the kiszka— and —I stole the kiszka——”many of them with a beer in one hand and a pussy willow sprig in the other —” whooped and cheered as Buffalo’s third annual Dyngus Day Parade rounded the corner on its way through the heart of Polonia.

Their enthusiasm was matched by the marchers and folks riding floats, flatbed trailers and cars, who danced the polka, tossed candy and occasionally a loaf of rye bread and sprayed the crowd with water blasters.

—This is the best day ever!— declared Christine Galey, 22, of Hamburg, who came to the Polish East Side not quite knowing what to expect, after reading online about this yearly celebration of a formerly obscure ethnic tradition.

—I think it’s better than St. Patrick’s Day,— opined Galey, who despite her Irish last name said she is of Polish and French- Canadian descent. —I knew it was a celebration, but I didn’t know it was one of the biggest Dyngus Day events anywhere.—

That it is —” and getting bigger by the year, said organizers Marty Biniasz and —Airborne Eddie— Dobosiewicz, who have turned what began in 1961 as a fundraiser for the Chopin Singing Society into a community-wide festival known as Dyngus Day Buffalo.

For the uninitiated, Dyngus Day is an unofficial Polish- American holiday, observed with pussy willows and squirt guns, marking the end of Lent, the solemn 40 days of prayer and self-denial leading up to Easter.

More than 75 units and hundreds of participants lined up outside Corpus Christi Catholic Church on Clark Street for the parade, which wound through the historic neighborhood at a deliberate pace, passing Broadway Market and the Adam Mickewicz Library and Dramatic Circle on Fillmore Avenue before turning back to Central Terminal, site of the largest Dyngus party.

—Never underestimate the power of the pussy willow,— Dobosiewicz quipped as he and Biniasz walked behind a float near the end of the parade route…

The biggest celebrations of Dyngus Day in the U.S. take place in Buffalo and in Sandusky, Ohio. For more on the original tradition see Smigus Dyngus and other Polish old Easter Traditions at Polishsite or the Wikipedia article on Easter Monday.

Poetry

April 13 – Polish Flowers by Julian Tuwim

Water bearing the fragrance of flowers,
Fresh as in my youth in فódz
Dyngus flowers on Piotrkowska Street
As Zosia Opęchowska smiles.
Where are you now, beautiful girl

Translation of the fragment highlighted below by Dcn. Jim

W bukiecie wiejskim, jak wiadomo,
Róże są skromne, bo po-domu;
Nie tkwią w kryształach na wystawie
Za lśniącą taflą szkła w Warszawie,
Nie sterczą swą łodygą długą,
Jakby połknęły jedna drugą;
Bez aspiracji do salonu,
Bez wywodzenia się z Saronu,
Bez dąsów, pąsów i purpury,
Nie zadzierają głów do góry;
Jak porzucone narzeczone,
Trzymają główki opuszczone,
A oczy wznoszą —” i tak trwają,
I spoglądając —” przepraszają.
Owe z cieplarni emigrantki,
Sztamowych biedne familiantki,
Nie są wyniosłe ni zawistne,
Lecz dobroduszne, drobnolistne,
Gęste i niskie, krasne, kraśne,
Zawsze z żółtawym proszkiem w środku,
Dobre przy bluzkach u podlotków
Lub w szklance. Takie róże właśnie.
A woń kwiatowej mają wody,
Świeżej jak w mojej فodzi młodej
Kwietniowy dyngus na Piotrkowskiej
I uśmiech Zosi Opęchowskiej.
Gdzie jesteś dziś, dziewczyno śliczna

O dwu warkoczach wyzłoconych,
Na pierś, wzdłuż ramion, przerzuconych,
Smukła i smagła, i pszeniczna,
Miodna, dysząca plonem pszczelnym
I wiatrem w zbożu pochylonem,
I wczesnym na wsi dniem niedzielnym,
Gdy kolorowe, krochmalone,
Krajkami szumiąc wzorzystemi,
Ścieżką przydrożną idą z sioła
Kwietne dziewczęta do kościoła:
Z oczyma niebu odjętemi
I chabrom inowłodzkiej ziemi;
Choć wystrojone, idą boso,
Trzewiki na ramionach niosą.
Wcześnie na świecie —” i po łące
Świeżości płyną parujące.
Ja, siadłszy na zwalonym drzewie,
Patykiem w pniu żywicznym grzebię,
Wyciągam bursztynowe pasmo
W nitkę wciąż cieńszą, aż pajęczą;
Las pachnie mocno, kwiaty brzęczą;
Zamykam oczy —” jak w nich jasno!
Otwieram oczy —” co to? o czem?
Urwana nitka… Gdzie warkocze?
Gdzie echo napiętego rymu?
Gdzie wiersz? gdzie sen?
—žKłębami dymu
Niechaj otoczę się—… I płaczę.

Christian Witness,

A joyous and happy Easter to all my readers

Christ has risen! Alleluia!
He has truly risen! Alleluia!

As our pastor explained this morning: The angel in the tomb is impatient with the onlookers. The angel tells us, ‘Go out from here, He is not here. Go and witness to Him.’

So I say: Let us join in our joyful witness to the truth of the resurrection, the reason for our hope.

I wish you and yours every blessing on this Solemnity of the Resurrection.

pisanki