2. srpna 2004
Galerie Prague Summer Program
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
||
|
|
|||
|
|
|
||
Jo Doran - Prague
The numbers at least, seem the same, marked out
at a respectful distance, one next to the other.
Assembling, quickened by this questioning. By this fumbling
that does not seem good enough to rely on. A living wall.
Let’s say we understand, breathing a word over the shoulder,
an afterthought, the rest carried out bit by bit:
this inflection, the rolled Rs, the opening large of the mouth where
often a mere nothing, a mood, will change the scale,
balance the ragged caution sounding of no yesterdays.
Is there any sin in that? But there it was, this tradition,
stalled, coughing its small perfection
but otherwise sloping gently it seemed without breathing.
Yet, listen for the sighs: valka, rána, zila, vcera, words with
no other longing than to die in the air,
offer themselves up with incredible silence
for death has a longing for them.
But this is a heavy example; instead
ask about anything you are alive to:
milenka, hubicka, duvera,
especially in times of unrest,
or today, when the eyes listen;
when every door and window would remain
open, awaken the corners, sweep up singing from some dusty hour:
“How people do always carry their own enemy within.”
This is not a warning, but a song, a curving poem
which grows together inextricably, in a certain sense
a rough quietness, an unlit page
opened at once; difficult to defend,
moist with examples and patterned with the eyelid of memory, or
on the contrary, with what is not immediately understood:
how things become what they have to be,
how a whole nation might very well remain
in a land of hidden absence, where even the trees bear different fruit,
which is enough to impress even a child, as you may know.
And birds, the size of crows, who look like crows, but are not crows, who
- but this is probably an illusion – shoot their dark arrow
tails straight to the ground. Magpies, white. And blue, the color
that is driven by the wind and abandons itself to it.
Mixture of light and dark, waterless dreams thrown against
a wrong turn of the wheel, a moment’s slip of mind.
*All even lines are from Kafka
Margaret von Steinen - Prague
Kafka Cento
In the course of time
you will come to this city and be
always in motion,
and if it’s cool, wrap yourself
with a great flower-patterned
woman’s shawl with long fringes,
mingle among other tourists,
who like you, had no wanton whim
of what had led them to this place
of copper, clay, and tall-spire roofs that
did not seem particularly suitable
for purposes of defense. You may feel
the need for an advocate, but realize
advocates are by nature hard to set in motion,
and just when you believe one is within your grasp, they’ll
slip through the tiniest gaps
of the Charles Bridge, leap to the Vltava,
float about like rain clouds
on the river’s murky surface.
Below the bridge you will see a man fishing with a cane pole,
hear the water slapping against the old boat,
while around you many vendors will hawk
their wares, and it will cross
your mind that perhaps the most suitable
place for this would be a huge fairground.
Head west through the coal-blackened
gate of the bridge, begin the ascent to the castle on the hill. It will appear
you are for ever on the great stairs that leads up to it.
When you arrive at the crest, you’ll notice a man
reading the newspaper on the steps of the monument,
a story about the Prime Minister’s resignation
acknowledged to be irrefutable,
and if you ask him from whence he came, he’ll say,
I am here, more than that I do not know.
At the dark doors of St Vitus’ Cathedral, another
man with wildly matted hair singing “The Burgomaster of Riva,”
who’ll tell you in plain language,
your arrival was announced to me during the night,
point you in the direction of a gypsy woman who’ll conduct
the somewhat ticklish business
of reading the sole of your foot, revealing you have
no other longing than to die.
She’ll send you inside the cathedral for penance,
what, in this country, is called “giving someone a leg up,
and under the gentle glance of Saint Wenceslaus , a bishop will light
a sacramental candle,
invoke the spirit of St. John Nepomuk, who for centuries
lay and waited (was there any sin in that?)
in his silver tomb to proclaim upon your arrival,
receive him in the name of the city,
which will stir a choir of archangels, convincing you
your death ship had lost its way.
* Italicized lines derived from Franz Kafka’s short stories, Advocates, The Married Couple, The News of the Building of the Wall, The Building of a City, The Savages, and The Hunter Gracchus,