John Guzlowski Knihy

At first, John Guzlowski's Ikky reminded me of Thomas Merton's The Way of Chuang Tzu. But Guzlowski broke away from the tradition of Western poets translating Asian texts. These Ikky poems were not originally written by the great Japanese Buddhist monk; rather, they were playfully invented, forged by the vast and imaginative mind of Guzlowski. Like any Zen text, Guzlowski's Ikky is a journey into contradictions, where laughter and sadness commingle, where meaning is embedded in meaninglessness, where sound is found in silence, where from winter comes spring which is followed by fall. There is both simplicity and depth in this little book. And in the center of it, the life force of these poems, is the still point, one that we desperately need in our chaotic world of strife, confusion, and ignorance. -Bunkong Tuon, writer and critic at Union College John Guzlowski traces the journey of the mad monk poet Ikky from the sea to the temple in a series of startling, luminous, precisely imagined, brief, interlocking poems-poems in the spirit of Ikky , certainly, but in a voice all his own; poems that make us laugh at ourselves even as they lead us deeper into an acceptance of the seasons of life and the inevitability of death. Each of these poems is a small lantern lighting the way toward wisdom and faith, revealing the world's beauty along the way. -Cecilia Woloch, author of Carpathia I met Ikky today, fifteenth-century mad-monk, long thought dead, but as alive as possible in the words of John Guzlowski's The Mad Monk Journeys from the Sea to the Temple. Guzlowski claims these are not Ikky words, but Ikky 's final bit of mischief may be his invasion of the author's twenty-first-century pen to prove his influence is eternal-Eternal like the zen and humor in these poems. Eternal like reading this is a master class on the Tatami mats of Kyoto. John Guzowski gives a glimpse into an ancient poet's journey with a sensibility that reins with an endearing modern simplicity. It's a journey well worth taking. -Rick Lupert, author of The Tokyo-Van Nuys Express

"Chicago, May 30, 1956: On a quiet corner in a working-class immigrant neighborhood, a heavy suitcase is discovered on the sidewalk late at night. Inside is the body of a young boy, naked and hacked into pieces. Two hard-drinking Chicago detectives are assigned to the case: Hank Purcell, who still has flashbacks ten years after the Battle of the Bulge, and his partner Marvin Bondarowicz, a wise-cracking Jewish cop who loves trouble as much as he loves booze. Their investigation takes them through the dark streets of Chicago in search of an even darker secret -- as more and more suitcases turn up."--Back cover

When Eleandra Jacobson is murdered and her organs removed, it seems straightforward to Kentsville’s small police force that Clarke Richards is guilty. He was found dead, hanging from a noose next to her with a full confession in a suicide note. Eleandra’s mum and her cousin, Seth Bronx, disagree and the latter is out to prove they’re right. One year after her death, the now private investigator decides to find out for himself.The town of Kentsville will be changed forever as Seth seeks truth and justice for his cousin, his blood and his family – for Eleandra.

Polska i moja osoba mamy za sobą burzliwy związek. Przez większą część mojego pisarskiego i czytelniczego żywota nie chciałem mieć nic wspólnego z Polską. Ona reprezentowała wszystko, od czego starałem się uwolnić, gdy było to możliwe. Skory byłem użyć słów, jakie Jezus wypowiedział, zwracając się do szatana: Odejdź szatanie ode mnie. Co się stało, że takie były moje odczucia? Cóż, pozwólcie, że to wytłumaczę. Urodziłem się w Niemczech w obozie dla uchodźców w roku 1948. Oboje moi rodzice byli polskimi katolikami dorastającymi i zamieszkałymi w Polsce aż do czasu, kiedy wywiezieni zostali do Niemiec na roboty przymusowe. Mój ojciec przebywał na nich cztery lata, a moja matka przez dwa i pół roku. Po wojnie rodzice odmówili powrotu do Polski i następne sześć lat spędzili w obozach dla przesiedleńców na terenie Niemiec. Moja matka, ojciec, moja siostra i ja przybyliśmy tutaj, do Ameryki jako przesiedleńcy w roku 1951. [...]