Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

Walks into yesterdays. Most of my walks lead to trails of the past. Truly, these are the only remnants of familiar vistas, touches, smells and shapes. I go through city parks and kick rotten molds of brown and yellow leafs. Maybe some zephyr will still rise them up – once in the air they will start again whirling round and round: let them feel the fresh air so different from the decayed air of autumn, be full of promise. Just yesterday they were still green, vibrating on the tiny branches of the trunks of their home tree. They rustled in unison with the flutes and clarinets of birds, sojourning on tree branches.

The autumn wind chased me from home, too. It led me to funny memories of my second happiest day of my life: the day of our wedding.  The second, because the first one happened years earlier, when I saw you the very first time. A little gay pub, right by the bridge on 14 Street in Calgary. It was a slow evening. I sat on one end by the bar and two guys were sitting at the other end. No one else. I was overtaken by his face and kept looking at him. The other guy finally spoke to me: let me introduce you to my brother, his name is John. That was it. Never let him off my sight until he died in my arms decades later. It truly is just magical how you can recognize a soul mate right away, when you are lucky enough to meet him.

Years later we got formally married in Surrey. I wasn’t particularly excited about that ceremony. Was a bit angry at society that we couldn’t do it in the 80ties, although Canada truly was the first country to introduce (Holland, for procedural reasons, was able to beat us with their first official marriage license – ours didn’t pass the parliamentary procedures in time to be officially first, and took the formal second place in the world) marriage equality. Therefore I didn’t want the ceremony to overshadow our union that existed for many years already. But truth to be told: I was overtaken with emotions, when I had to say ‘yes’ to the City Clerk in front of my family, John’s family and so many friends. That was magical. 

Right after our wedding we were send off by our families to special, beautiful boutique hotel right in centre of Downtown Vancouver, steps from Art Gallery on Robson.

So the autumn wind chased me today to that hotel. Our formal first night as a formally married couple happened there. It didn’t dampen or made less important our first meeting and years of being together. It made it somehow stronger, if possible.

After that I walked to our Davie Street through the Nelson Park and the little enchanted walkway on Mole Hill. Was I sad at times? I am sad and happy all the time. It is just the way it is. It took me a while to get to the point of not being just sad all the time, of actually despising being alive. I don’t cling to it, to that life of mine, but I don’t detest it anymore. I have learnt to love Love. From songs, from poems, movies, from observing couples walking together holding hands.

We walk through galleries of life:

a picture on the wall here,

a bust of lovely youth there.

We enter concert halls of life:

a longing cry of violin here,

bravado of mature pianist there.

What do we do at night,

between long lonely hours

from crimson dusk to pinky dawn?

We dream of kiss, of love.

We wait in our nightly sleep

for a white dove to sit on our pillow.

A dove that brings a song

of upheavals and song of peace.

Song dreamt of by cosmic

choir of see-trough angels,

who cry and rejoice in unison

For such is Cosmos: a star is born

                               when a star dies.

            On y way back home I have stopped for my cup of Americano in ‘my’ café ‘Moodswing’ on Front Street in New Westminster. My second home, so to speak. A places where many my poems were written, many books read.

I was at first a bit disappointed: the narrow room was full of people. After searching a little bit, I have found a spot to sit right by the wall, by narrow shelf that can hold a cup. As I was sitting and looking through my back for my wallet, so I can go and order at least my coffee, Ricky the co-owner arrived with my hot coffee the way I like. Nice gesture, since I didn’t have to go through the throng to the ordering spot (there is no table service in there if you order just the coffee, which suits me fine) for it. A kind gesture, knowing that he must be very busy.

I thought it was some sort of meeting that happens there from time to time. But next thing I see there is a woman reciting poetry, than a young fellow goes to the mike and does the same. Than Ricky goes there himself and recites his poem! For all these months I was sitting there writing my things and our typical talks – he never mentioned that he writes poetry, too! Later I gave him a verbal lashing for hiding it from me, LOL.  He promised me to show me more and I probably will publish it here, on my blog.

So, as it happens it was a poetry slam. I just never noticed any info about it – I hardly ever read the board with announcements. Just like to have small chats, drink my coffee and write in my notebook He asked me if I will read something mine. Didn’t have any with me, but than remember that I can search on my phone my blog and found something there. It was probably the very first time I read publicly my poem from … my phone screen, LOL.  How modern, ha ha ha. Of course the first in English that I found and the one I read was rather long and difficult one, full of historical parables to of Hannibal and Alexander the Great, all dedicated to French genius Andre Gide. Hopefully it didn’t look like I was a pompous ass.

Below is the poem dedicated to Andre Gide.

Winter time in a small village in Pyrenees.

Night comes quickly and darkness covers

the valleys and peaks. Suddenly, the windows

off a small stony church lights up in delicate

orange glow. From the top of the church steeple

comes the song of its bells: big bam! Big bam!

big!, big! big! Bam! Bam! Bam! Baaaam-mmm!

The air vibrates with each tone of the big bell

and sends  bronze-coloured sounds to the valleys.

Archangel Michael blows into long, golden trumpet.

The music envelopes the meadows, climbs up the hills.

The call of God, the call of the Shepherd: 

come and be enlighten in the mystery of life

 and promise of death merciful that claims us all.

They run – the tired travelers, the herds of goats.

They cry and hope, as the trumpet sounds again

and dies suddenly like the last drop of now empty goblet.

The church becomes a masjid and archangel becomes muezzin,

that intones to all: Allāhu ʾAkbar. In Pyrenees Hannibal’s army

stop their march and rise their tusks and trunks: they sense the pitch

of the hymn and the psalm as the far flung peaks of Alps slowly

cover the church, the mosque and streams in the valleys.

The curtain call of History. Birth and death of Love.

Moodswing Café, 29. 05.26

B. Pacak-Gamalski