Praha + Rilke

"Poems are not simply emotions . . . they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and things . . . and know the gestures which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you have long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained . . .; to childhood illnesses . . . to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel . . . and it is still not enough" -- The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, Rainer Maria Rilke










Hello from Praha! I'm here in the Czech Republic to see the childhood city of poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Letters to a Young Poet has immensely influenced both the shaping of my Watson year and my approach to writing, so I'm excited to re-trace the places where he wrote some of his most famous letters (not to mention poems). I found a couple of book shops in town and began talking to the store owner at Anagram Bookstore just off of Old Town square. It was my first real day exploring the city and it was bitterly cold and snowing, so I ducked into the bookstore and ended up spending almost an hour in there. When I told him I was in Prague to study Rilke, his immediate reply was: "You do know that he was a huge jerk, right?" I told him I did. His second question was: "You do know that he hated Prague, right?" I actually hadn't known that. It just goes to show how Rilke is really different from a lot of the other poets I've studied this past year. Unlike others, he never had a fixed sense of place or home. To him, he wanted to escape Prague and the place he was born.

Anyway, the owner ended up selling me several Czech poetry books, so it was a deal for him as well! Have you heard of Jaroslav Seifert? I had never heard of him, but he was an active Czech writer, poet, and journalist who won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1984. The bookstore owner convinced me to buy his collected poems and I'm enjoying them. They were actually written during the Communist period (he was also part of the Communist party). My brother and I recently visited the Museum of Communism when he was here for his spring break, so I feel like I have more insight into the world he was writing in. I really wish I could read Czech or German so I wouldn't have to rely on translations.

I spent my first week here with my friend Shinwha who I met at the Yeats Summer School this past July at the start of my Watson. She's been such a good host: suggesting good places to eat (of utmost importance), pointing out places to visit, and even inviting me to accompany her to bikram yoga (I almost died). I'm now staying at a short let apartment in Andel (a suburb that's still slightly commercial) west of the river and south of Prague Castle. I was able to get a monthly metro pass, so I have unlimited access to the city and I absolutely love having the freedom to hop on a train or tram and go just about anywhere.

Overall, I REALLY like Prague. I could see myself living here. Prague is so beautiful! The architecture, cobblestone lanes, the river, and cute cafes. Things are also cheap. Especially beer. Beer is cheaper than water! I'm not really a beer drinker, but maybe I need to drink more beer to stay within my Watson budget! haha. Corey is here on his spring break and keeps remarking: "I wouldn't mind living here AT ALL." Translation=I would live here solely for the dirt cheap beer.

The weather is beginning to warm up and I'm ready for Spring! (I have been since I returned to Europe after Trinidad!) Corey and I went on a walk in the Little Quarter this morning and the trees were beginning to bud. Makes me miss Wellesley and spring time in Boston and Cambridge. I miss the magnolia trees, Newbury street, and most of all Linnean street, but am happy to be experiencing such a beautiful season in a new city.












An interesting article on Rilke and Prague: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/style/longterm/books/chap1/lifeofapoet.htm

Good bye, Trinidad

Next stop: Prague!

Snapshots from my last few days. I put on a poetry workshop, attended University of the West Indies (UWI) Literature week, visited Tobago (Trinidad's sister island), met writer/poet and artist Willi Chen, visited La Brea Pitch Lake, the Wildfowl Trust, etc. Many thanks to the Gonzalez family for taking me on these outings and for introducing me to poets and writers in the area.


















The next time I blog, I'll be bundled up again in winter clothes!

Pouis Downpour

A lazy Sunday in Trinidad turned into a productive day when I started reading the Applehouse poetry blog. The writing prompt for this poem was rain, but I ended up writing about the absence of rain. It's just a first draft, literally completed two minutes ago so it still needs a lot of revision. Please post any favorite rain poems or write your own. I miss rain!

Pouis Downpour

A month and three days,
the longest I’ve gone without rain.
I arrived during dry season,
but even from the highway
the hills lean away
from the road and in the sun,
they are brown with dollops of olive—
the last vestiges of rain
in this parched labyrinth of concrete and plaster,
barbed wire, and guard dog packs.

Even hoses are coiled and locked away,
watering forbidden in this drought.
Yesterday at almost midnight,
I heard sputtering of the hose
from next door as the old lady
watered her bougainvillea
spilling out her gates, and anthuriums
cloistered in that hot shed all day.
Now, while her neighbors sleep
she hovers over her wilting ferns,
the browning grass
and water laps against the gleaming
elephant ears of her anthuriums and orchids.

I hear her muttering about the rain,
the hot humid days, where the fans can’t keep
up. But, we all pray for rain.
The smell arrives first.
A thick odorous ochre—
the stench of burning garbage,
charred hair, and pigeon bones.
The brush burns for days,
the fire fighters parade in mas
and no one notices
the charred ridges, the sudden razing
of trees, now just black bruises
that stain the mountains.

Here, there is always a restless impatience.
Waiting for rain.
Waiting for night hours to water.
Waiting for the fires to clear.
Waiting for mas to begin, to end, to come again next year.

Here the brush never smolders red,
only a veil of black smoke
and the taste of ash between your gums,
and the grit of black layers that line your bedside.
We pass under a row of Pouis trees,
purple and yellow petals congregate in the street—
the lone markers of spring, the assurance of rain
as we drive by more brush fires, and the open-air
cremation site near the sea where Hindu
mourners stand in stasis
draped in the smoke.

Tomorrow, only a few bone fragments,
the light grey dust and the lingering
gaze of the brush burning above.
Ashes to ashes.