Portrait Of An Artist: Bolek Majerik

Somewhere in Bucovina, away from the madding crowd, there lies a village populated only by Polish successors of emigrants from Czadec. Attested in the 19th century, Plesca village, although separated from the ancestors' values, preserves their language, traditions and religion. Bolek Majerik was born here in 1968. He graduated from the Construction High School in Câmpulung Moldovenesc. His desire for knowledge and his delicate sensibility made him come back to his natal village. His shy attempts at writing now take the form of verse. He sent his first poems to Polonus, the Polish Union's newspaper. His debut took place in 1997, with the booklet Wcielenie slowa (Materialisation of Words). Fascinated by the landscape of Bucovina, in love with history, Bolek felt he can express himself differently. He started carving wood or salt from Cacica mines, exploited by Polish people at the end of the 18th century. Yet, he never forgot his first love – poetry. He attended international poetry contests for Polish people living in foreign countries, and he won some honorable mentions and prizes. The Polish Union in Romania edited a two-language volume in 2002, titled Among Gods, Trees and People. Who am I? is another volume, printed in Poland in 2003. Bolek is now a sculpture student at the Arts University in Poznan, Poland. Bolek Majerik sees the world as an enigma, whose sense can be deciphered only by the sensitivity of emotions originated in Bucovina. Forest of Beech TreesSometimes I wanderAmong the crowds of beech treesMy brothers with so rare a skin They are namelessBut I know each of them by nameThe one that sheltered the crowThe one that hid the deer They know me Better than people doAnd I go there oftenTo chat Their souls are so freeAnd I'm their guestSometimes they send me a messageCarved in their skinSo blue   Letter to Home Coming from FarawayMotherWhen I'm not homePrepare a cup of coffee for me, too Sit at the tableAnd gently sip The black liquorI'll come Into your thoughts FatherWhen I'm not homeSharpen the scythe For me tooAnd take it with you In the fieldsI'll come To lean Your tired arms on meAbove the island Of grass Among Gods, Trees and People The Polish Union in Romania, 2002

by Anonymous