The Easter Winds of Prague



Its cold in Prague at this time of the year,
the Easter markets just setting up,
painted eggs and music, swirls
of intricate colours, you would, if you recall
kiss away the curls of breath
and tuck my hands into deep pockets,
popping candy smiles and ordering
cups of warm wine, getting lost
in children's smiles, wearing ribbons,
enclosed by Wencelas Square.

We would ride our bicycles if it hadn't snowed
or watch a concert at the Prague Opera,
you never really understood the ballet,
but we choreographed our own steps,
on cobbles, eating sweet pastries;
I bought a hat and lost it around the Sacre Coeur,
and as the weather warmed, we joined
the musicians and artists along the Charles Bridge,
where battered violin cases lay open
and life was one continual mime.

Its cold in Prague this time of year,
I wonder if you remember the painted eggs and ribbons,
perhaps you found my hat, tucking up your hair
and wearing the brim down low;
a man in a coat, with holes in the lining
where I used to hide my hands
while you kissed the bow that became undone,
scattering the paper shards, to leave a trail
of brightly coloured memories,
a ballet that you never understood.




Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2013-04-17 at 23:08

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Peter Humphreys
This is a brilliant evocation of the Prague I know. It also captures the relationship brilliantly, especially in the closing stanza. A gem. Peter
2013-05-06


Peter J. Kautsky
The read was uplifting. This is not the Prague I remember in 1980 when nobody spoke. Mute people walked along Wenceslaus Square with stern faces. The city was absolutely dark at night except for the square. It was frightening. The eatery had about thirty items listed but only one available -- a greasy sort of "egg fu yung" with a few peas in it. A man flipped out ranting about soviet tanks. He was hushed by others. People were lining up to buy greens --- something green to eat that looked like it came out of a garbage dumpster in the United States. Everybody had this dry skin. My skin began turning dry from the constant acidification of the air from the coal burning smoke stacks everywhere. There was an abundance of beer and sausage as if to placate a population. But I did dance a ballet there, getting lost intentionally on the trams, eating the sausage, drinking the beer. There was the "Narodni Divadlo" the main opera house where my father sang just as the Nazis came to town.
2013-05-01


Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
This text has been chosen to be featured on the front page of PoetBay. Thank you for posting it on our poetry web site.
2013-04-28



A life's vivid touch
Dually intimate,
Deep passions spilled
In quiet corners
of the heart;
One's memory at home in two.
2013-04-18


countryfog
Most of us visit a place and at most may write a postcard - "wish you were here" . . . you write poems and we are there. Sometimes art imitates life, and rarely art is life - yours.
2013-04-18


shells
Prague and passion, what a combination. I'm lucky enough to have visited, beautiful place, you have brought it to life.
2013-04-18


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
A magnificent city. You were so fortunate to experience it with someone you loved very much. I've traveled for many years but to my regret, always alone and for business. How I envy your memories of shared intimacy within this historic and heroic city with its wonderful buildings, bridges cafes and plazas.

You write very fluidly and with grest passion. A true treat to read.

Joe
2013-04-18



As foreign as my world of saddles and spurs may be to you, so your world is to me, and it's fascinating to read of it. Envy is not an admirable trait, but I envy you those happy days and memories.
2013-04-18