john guzlowski

john guzlowski
Danville, Virginia, USA
June 22
I was born in a refugee camp in Germany after World War II, and came with my Polish Catholic parents Jan and Tekla and my sister Donna to the United States as Displaced Persons in 1951. My parents had been slave laborers in Nazi Germany. Growing up in the immigrant and DP neighborhoods around Humboldt Park in Chicago, I met Jewish hardware store clerks with Auschwitz tattoos on their wrists, Polish cavalry officers who still mourned for their dead horses, and women who walked from Siberia to Iran to escape the Russians. I write about these people.


AUGUST 10, 2012 8:15PM

Drought: A poem

Rate: 3 Flag



See my little girl?

She can read a book


make change for a twenty

tell you what star is what.


She doesn't need

school or love or dolls.


She knows winter is hard

and beds are soft



grow on vines.


She knows

what's useless:


the soft spade

the easy turn.


Maybe in Mississippi



the soil is sweet

ready for asparagus


or juicy fruit

but not here.


Here the ground is clay

more clay than dirt.


Here, you see a dog

you know he's leaving.

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drought open call

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I love this interpretation of the open call. So profound.