Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Když ještě nosily se duše



























Byl rok 1961 – rok rození,
a lidé, dosud ještě v oblecích,
nastavovaly stojany a plátna
světlu, řece a starým domům,

jež byly stále ještě povědomé
jak žena páchající lásku
a hladce po vědomí vonící
pod bludištěm rozlévaných vlasů

až přes práh nahodilé básně,
a na dlažebních kostkách
chodců krok v tom okamžiku vázl
a zůstával stát jak pramice u břehu

a v lidech dosud ještě bylo cosi,
cosi jako duše vytržená z času.
 A stojany a čerstvě načatá plátna
byly jak síťky na chytání motýlů

snících o barvách i o člověku
a mírně tušící, že právě tam,
kde světlo míhá se a třepí
v tázání a třepotavém třpytu,

jímž trýzní ony oči, víčka, řasy,
ještě lze ochutnat ranní chlad
a řeku i svěžest ve vzduchu
a tišivě do slunka již šatící se krásy.

Neboť právě tam, dosud a tehdy –
ženy stále ještě podobají se květům
ve stínu a třpytu, jímž se o nás otírají
jejich křídla, oči, víčka, rty a řasy,

a barokní sochy na Karlově mostu
stále ještě trnou před kacířstvím lásky,
která stále ještě rozsévá, hromadí i kupí
tyhle závěje rán, světla a stínů

co drahocenné klenoty po tělech
veskrze intimníćh a něžných
a své malby, modlitby a kresby,
svou mluvnici a hovor

dosud ještě podepřený
tím vnímáním – od údivu
k údivu rozepjatým
místo konečných stanic

jak křídla napřímená k letu
či jak oči znovu chytající se krásy,
a ten tah a tišina uprostřed času

znovu? ještě jsou – podepřeny duší.

Friday, November 18, 2016

Clarity in the Waters
Caught In a Few Reed Strokes


Less is more
as long as clarity
longs to be,


as long as clarity
is restored.
In few strokes


by the stalks of reed
above the waters
calm and still

as they tug and draw
emptiness or the coat
of waters off the face of soul.

Tuesday, October 4, 2016



“Catholic women do it better,”
Just ask any Baltimore taxi driver
About Loyola University girls …

                        “Every greater or better love
                        Tries to knock us off.
Back into la prima nocta.
                        Like la prima nocta.”

By the Seine
    below the Pont Marie
    Notre Dame totters
 on her two teetering toes
            or something like this

for in those moments it’s easy
    to skip or swap a letter or
rank and become dyslexic,
    pagan or barbaric
or even—passion tongue-tied,

the Pont Marie is strung
    & drunk all the way through,
and if Notre Dame is a lady,
    she is so darkly and flipped

like a heron amidst the stream
    which she searches and beaks
for the one fish on two long legs
and magic of gold and her triple wish.

    That love is tantrum and dream,
timber in kindling, temper and humor
    and pique and emptiness trim
and mantra and mudra—behind which,
    instead of Kali, gorgeous Medusa blinks.

It‘s good that right in the beginning
   every cathedral offers a bird cooling bath
and only then a pulpit for, as we know,
   for man and woman ever to sin,
   the word had to be first,

and the first ever conversation,
    back-and-forth talk, was between
    curious Eve and the bellicose
belly and bell & crawler and creep
    whose name makes the sound
and air shudder, quiver and sing.

    Or is it because there is always
a cat, a holistic cat, buried or meant
in the word catholic from which sideways
    we spin and slip and nap and fall asleep
    till all in everything rings, rinses and fits?

And if there is such a cat free
    to finish and turn, then
there must be an Egyptian beau
down inside any such belle or fan
    should you just bother to scratch,

the very one whose lines once made
   stone by the Nile come alive
in those statues divinely smooth
    and yet ready and calm
    as she arches and aches
like Notre Dame’s dam
  
or the Pont Marie?
    Like Heavenly Nut
showing us the shower of stars
and beauty’s finish, surface and end
    —beauty’s genesis text
    and prima nocta and grazing grace

as love drums her dreams
    into the ears by which we stalk
the earth, the air and waves
    and even heavens—
    spiced, despoiled and dented
by women and heartthrobs of Hell.

    And still I would maintain,
as Notre Dame tumbles,
    trembles and streams,
and so does the Seine,
    though never minding a bit
who is the angel and which is the imp,
    each of them raises her golden knees.

Sunday, October 2, 2016



The Fall Is a Supreme Act
By Which Beauty Absolves Itself
Of Drama and Excess

The days may not be so bright,
yet the quiet keeps
dimly their shimmer inside
two of our enclosing palms.

Fallen leaves are growing dark,
but trees are lush in red
and orange in crowns,
sights and layers

that beauty makes
them wear and fray
and then drop
and discard

as they go nude
into winter—deeper
into eyes and silence
and calling shimmer.

As we are all—one by one.


October 2, 2016


Thursday, September 29, 2016

Tell Me Which Regimes Make Poets Exhiled and I Will Tell You How Dead They Are



He went to see a sunset
And saved his country’s soul
By blessing a positively dead sunflower

What was the day
when Allen Ginsberg
went to the sunset
Frisco rusty hill

with Jack Kerouac
and saw the Sunflower,
the unholy battered,
dead old thing

with withered
roots below
on thoughts
of death?

It was the day
he rebuked the flower
and then he blessed
its beatitude perfect!

On that day
in a Sunflower poem
Beatnik Ginsberg saved
what was doomed and dying

alas unlike the priests,
the planners and the anti-poets,
seduced by the beauty and the speed
of American cars, cigarettes

and panties
and cracks and wings
and shopping
and high heels

with no reason to waste on sunflower odes
& no soul to see, to mind or mend or heal
or love or one to whom to sing—submit.
Thoughts of death of their own instead

against life they went to weave, plant
and plan, set on inverting their people’s
own sunflowers and deadly nothings
in reverse—and that’s what they did,

those seedless anti-poets,
grim reapers, faithless priests,
proud apparatchiks of the East,
in their way of dreaming—

of Allen’s golden hills.


After Verlain




“Your steps born of mine
were my religious tread.”
May we tell for whom
and how—under what weight,

a yielding soul would
so shiver and turn
ever so lightly into a verse,
into that row that goes

and stops and in which then
a soul reverses even all
and, to the beginning,
rushes and returns.

Outside of my window
the autumn is alike,
both a row and a verse
and fresh and falling

into the lights—rustle
of the air for the Fall
has come to gather
its soothing rains

and to disperse what was
holding, tarrying on—
that much, that little
that trees used to

wear on—that weaving
of easy breeze and breath,
which just like our—time,
tasted love and echoed steps

were given with grace themselves
to verse and shiver with each turn
in that very way in which we
used to live and love and  blend.