Prague Street Poetry - Wings of Hope

Saturday we discovered this poem drawn on a wall at the foot of the castle steps. A little googling found its author, Jan Skácel and its title. He published "Naděje s bukovými křídly" in 1983 in a book by the same name which means, roughly translated, "Hope with beech wings."

I translated the rest this morning. The original has more subtlety to it, but I hope you can catch its notion of the new day waiting to be shaped like an angel still to be carved from wood. How that day can be angry but that it is within us to transform it. How we fly forth on the new day's wings of hope, staying grounded by the heart of what we carve our day from.

(The beech is characterized as a messenger tree in Celtic folklore; the linden is the national tree of the Czech Republic and in Roman mythology, a sign of fidelity. Make of this what you will.)

Here is the poem in Czech

"Naděje s bukovými křídly"
Jan Skácel

Novému ránu rožneme svíci
Je neznámé a nemá tváře
Jak anděl v dřevu lípy spící
A čekající na řezbáře

Někdy se na nás anděl hněvá
Anděla máme každý svého
A naděje má z buku křídla
A srdce z dřeva lipového

She had me at ladybug

 

Saturday's rainy weather didn't stop us from getting out of the house for provisions and a treat at mamacoffee. Caroline decided to go out dressed up, and I snapped lots of pictures of her walking through the gloom, armed and capped with a pink umbrella and ladybug hat. None of the pictures came out as sparkly as reality so I added a filter and a poem to dress this one up a bit.

Happy Monday!!

A Kind of Solace

One reason I take pictures of graffiti I like is that it just doesn't last. Most pieces don't wind up on the walls of movie stars, but get painted over or scratched out. A week or two after I found this homage to Karel Gott and vegetarianism, someone took a big stick to it. Last time I walked by more of the print had disappeared.

I borrowed the idea of a postcard poem from Lucy, who is usually found at Box Elder. My postcard is more statement than song though.

Jess, who writes the blog Garish and Tweed and the most useful book reviews I know, issued a challenge the other day. She challenged her readers to check out her friend Kate's blog, red couch fever, (very funny) and try to write a poem in the style of William Carlos Williams' "This is just to say".

I tried my hand at it too - nothing as funny as Kate or Jess's addition to the repertoire, but it sort of summarizes the month I'm living through:

I’m sorry I yelped
When you urped down my shirt
I made your arms flail
And your sweet lips turn pale.
Forgive me -
I know it wasn’t malicious,
just quick
and cold.

Poetry seems to be in the air over here at Kolokolo. I ran out of books to read about a week ago (and when I'm feeding a baby, I need something to read), so I've been overhauling my poetry shelf, pulling out old favorites to see how they hold up to the rigors of a 2 am critic. Besides remembering just how much I like Marianne Moore, I've discovered something else cool too. All that pacing you put in walking a colicky baby? You might feel you'll never have your hands free again to eat a sandwich or fold the swarms of laundry surrounding you, but pacing is great for memorizing poetry. I roar out lines while the baby bellows, I whisper them while I bob him, nearly asleep, on my shoulder.

So far I've memorized one Marianne Moore poem, several William C Williams and e.e. cummings (so easy). Next up is some Donne and Shakespeare. Any suggestions on favorite poems you have memorized, I'd love to hear.

“22 Weeks (and 11 inches)”

Tonight you rest content to roam
within the small space we two
have spun. Home is a narrow room
you’ve backed into, head tucked tight.
“She feels safe that way,
look, there’s more room behind her,”
the doctor says as she ciphers light
from silent sound on the monitor.

But times are, I feel you
elbow out, reach beyond those lines,
stretching my longing point too.
Time soon will be, face to face
we’ll begin our divide. Then will
I remember this balance of roll
and righting? How easy it seemed
to carry you, by my side.

-me, February 19, 2003

Though truthfully I'm actually 23 weeks pregnant today. I meant to post this yesterday but fell asleep with Tuesday-ness. How's that for some news?

Morning poem

Though I admire the morning and wish it most well, I prefer to greet it after a shower or at least a hot cup of coffee and fifteen minutes worth of waking up in front of the New York Times. When I told Will I was going to try my hand at writing a morning poem, following mytypography.com's lead, he said, "Good thing 'grrr grrr grrr' rhymes." He’d just delivered me a cup of tea so I didn’t hold it against him. Plus I’d already written the poem. For a precis, see grrr grrr grrr.

A Scrabble morning
"Draw the blinds", she said and
Craned her neck to view the ashen sky,
thinking - Victorian phrases,
that's what I'm left with.
What are the words for today?
"Stunned by sleep", "bitter", "sore"...

I slide those tiles from the table,
no points won,
stretch my pajammed legs and
pad to the kitchen for coffee.

Found

Discovered in a notebook while cleaning out my desk Friday, a poem from after our grandfather's funeral two years ago.

I did not cry when we followed him in,
   nor when we sang
Amazing Grace, his favorite hymn.
   But when Grandmama fiercely wavered
the last stanzas of the last hymn,
   when the boys stood sentinel
as we watched the flag fold by fold -
     Only then.

Without distractions, where would we be,
......shocked by consciousness' chasm.

I get stuck there, sometimes
......standing in the shower, wondering why -
caught within the layers of perception.

My skin turns cold beneath the scalding water
......I reach out and turn up the radio.