Along the streets of Prague

Sitting in a Starbucks cafe in the middle of Prague, just by the Charles bridge, the one with all the statues, I am almost a bit baffled by the complete mix of history and culture in this city. As you can see in the picture below, I am standing in front of an old building with its art nouveau front, and in the same building there is a Mango fashion store. It is almost Kafkaesque...


I also found this poet, Louis Armand, an aussie living and teaching here in Prague. Although I have not, as the poem describes, travelled by the Nighttrain, but maybe some day I will.

NIGHTTRAIN

the allegory is ended where the window
across from you—opening
to the left & right
like a hollow stage—phantom
fleeing ... but the day after tomorrow
there is also time
which can be banished
of every one of those senses—the un-
charted space of
enactment foreshortened to memory
the distant pitch of factory sirens'
tedious iteration—brooding
over the strange absence between—
when you find yourself anonymous
as any other passenger (the ticket in your hand
no longer proof of destination) ...

nearer they came: it's impossible to know
the degree of solitude you’ll reach
once fate touches you ... & the wind
pushing behind the glass
almost visible—frightened by its
humanness (a moment later the light outside
has faded against the roof-line)—
was it death that was between us then?

Et lite vår/sommer dikt på norsk

Tenkte at jeg, ettersom jeg, mer eller mindre, kun har skrevet på engelsk på denne bloggen, skulle ha en kort liten post på norsk. Som jeg nevnte i forrige post, så er det nå deilig sommer med parkopphold, iste og is, og en av de beste tidene på året til å bruke mesteparten av den lyse tiden til å lese alt jeg ikke får lest ellers. En forfatter som da ofte dukker opp er Harald Sverdrup, ettersom det kan bli sagt at vi ikke helt ennå er fullt i sommermodus, men heller i en skumringstime mellom vår og sommer, synes jeg at Sverdrups lille dikt "Våren er en videofilm" passer utmerket.


Våren er en videofilm med vold og porno,
spissrotgang og underlivslukt av hegg og berberis,
surt piss fra bakgårder, søt lukt av svanger skogbunn,
regnvåt ensomhet under svarte paraplyer,
glimt av solbyen Nirvana, menns og kvinners nakenhet
åpenbaret i fragmenter, små frydefulle hikst.

Rovfugl svever inn i himmelens blå redsel,
forfølgelsesvanvidd flykter rundt i vinden
og får kongler og en håndfull sand i hodet.
Svarttrosten i asylparken synger fiolett med gule gnister.
Et formørket sinn vil sette punktum for sitt liv,
men blir reddet av en solstråle.

Summer Holiday

The summer has finally arrived, and so has my first real holiday in years. Since the completion of my Latin exam last Thuesday my action of the has definetly been an equally opposite reaction to the days before: utter non action. It has, without doubt, a sated experience. As to summery weather, it has likewise been warm, sunny, a pleasent continous founderous view of delightful and beautiful people, and a wonderous smell of barbeque in the air.

Whilst laying in the park, I came across a poem by D.H. Lawrence, which by all accounts suits these last few days perfectly:


How strange it would be if some women came forward and said:
We are sun-women!
We belong neither to men nor our children nor even ourselves
but to the sun.

And how delicious it is to feel sunshine upon me!
And how delicious to open like a marigold
when a man comes looking down upon one
with sun in his face, so that a woman cannot but open
like a marigold to the sun
and thrill with glittering rays.