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"We should always forgive
others, remembering that we ourselves need forgiveness."
- John Paul II
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Karol Józef
Wojtyła, known as John Paul II since his October 1978 election to
the papacy, was born in the Polish town of Wadowice, a small city 50
kilometers from Krakow, on May 18, 1920.
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Ty, który wszystko przenikasz - wskaż!
took place on Sunday, November 27 at 6 pm at the
Polish Home,
1714 18th
Avenue, Seattle.
The Salon presented poetry and prose of Karol Wojtyla
Music: Marzena
Lilian Szlaga (piano) plays Fr. Chopin
Poetry reading:
Danuta Chowaniec, Ewa Poraj- Kuczewska, Rev.
Stanislaw Michalek, Jurek Radke, Krystyna Swietlicka, Bill Witherup,
Lena Wrożyńska,
Barbara Zoltowski
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Marzena Lilian
Szlaga:
 Born
in Poland in 1968 and started music lessons at the age of 6, M.Lilian
Szlaga was a child prodigy. She enjoyed the process of learning as
much as her later public performing. The biggest influence on her
musical growth was music of Frederic Chopin.
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Musical programm: ( all Fr.
Chopin):
Nocturne D Flat Major op.27 No.2
Nocturne E Minor Op.72 No.1
Waltze C Sharp Minor Op.64 No.2
Mazurka A Minor Op. 17 No. 4
Nocturne C Sharp Minor Opus Posthumous
Fantaisie-Impromptu- C Sharp Minor Op. 66 Bill Witherup is
a writer-activist in the areas of nuclear warfare, prison reform,
and labor issues. He has published nine books of poetry and
translation of Hispanic poetry. His latest book Down Wind, Down
River: New and Selected Poems, contains a section of his
translations. He is presently working on a collection of essays,
Mother Witherup's op Secret Cherry Pie. |
The Quarry
He wasn't alone.
His muscles grew into the flesh of the crowd, energy their pulse,
As long as they held a hammer, as long as his feet felt the ground.
And a stone smashed his temples and cut through his heart's chamber.
They took his body and walked in a silent line
Toil still lingered about him, a sense of wrong.
They wore gray blouses, boots ankle-deep in mud.
In this, they showed the end.
How violently his time halted: the pointers on the low voltage dials
jerked, then dropped to zero again.
White stone now within him, eating into his being, taking over
enough of him to turn him into stone.
Who will lift up that stone, unfurl his thoughts again under the
cracked temples?
So plaster cracks on the wall.
They laid him down, his back on a sheet of gravel.
His wife came, worn out with worry; his son returned from school
Should his anger now flow into the anger of others?
It was maturing in him through his own truth and love
Should he be used by those who came after, deprived of substance,
unique and deeply his own?
The stones on the move again; a wagon bruising the flowers.
Again the electric current cuts deep into the walls.
But the man has taken with him the world's inner structure, where
the greater the anger, the higher the explosion of love.
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