Professional Documents
Culture Documents
I, City
I, City
Pa v e l B r y c z
I, C I T Y
isbn-10: 80-86264-27-0
isbn-13: 978-80-86264-27-1
I, City • 9
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The poet thought he’d introduce his friend, the
Portuguese poet, to the utter absurdity he experienced
in his every encounter with the memorial to the
miners’ strikes. He laughed at the mere memory of the
Youth League shirts worn by he and his Gymnasium
classmates, released from afternoon lessons and
obliged to stand astride the officers of the army and
the people’s militia. Comrades laid wreaths, another
comrade delivered a speech, and after the address the
Internationale was sung. The Gymnasium boys, like our
poet, were born in the year 1968. They couldn’t stand
memorials, comrades, Youth League shirts or wreaths.
And they couldn’t stand the Internationale.
But they liked playing pranks.
“So we also sang the Internationale, to the grumbling
of those fat old farts, who were in uniform, with their
rifles slung over their shoulders, but we sang it in the
original, in French,” Most’s poet explained to his
Portuguese friend. “They were totally confused, as
were our teachers, and the army officers as well, none
of those comrades knew what to do, even given their
excellent cadre profiles, the lessons they’d learned
about crisis development engraved deep in their faces.
They didn’t know whether they were supposed to
forbid our singing as an impertinent provocation, or
to appreciate that for the first time we were singing
along with them, in unison.
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“We sang, and in so doing we laughed at their parades,
at their memorials, at their eternal fear of a freedom
that for them was only the recognition of necessity.”
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an appearance, nostalgic
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No, I didn’t see you in the whirl of masks —
perhaps my pride was evil.
Perhaps the cowboys hid you from view —
perhaps the princesses, perhaps the darkness.
You were in the mask of a beautiful lady?
But I was, too!
Both of us with mommies —
the pistachio ice cream . . .
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an appearance, amorous
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an appearance, linguistic
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soul. And only a soul gives words meaning and joy to
speech.
Believe me: though I am only a city, I don’t want my
heart’s people to be mute.
I want to be their lost child on the boulevard of the
Champs Elysées, who they take under their wing and
lead home.
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an appearance, wintry
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with great white teeth
to ground great anger down.
Great white bales of cotton,
O I’m soaked to my soul.
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an appearance, poetic
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work, which would serve as their manifesto, and in
which they would reach the absolute depths of their
lyrical capabilities.
It was, for them, a temptation as tremendous as
bungee jumping from atop the highest bridge.
And this was the result of their efforts, a poem into
which they poured everything that a seventeen-year-
old can feel and write if he has four friends, sits at the
Poesie Café, and drinks watered wine:
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My eyes to a girl! My breast, hers!
But clenched by my own mother,
My man’s might boxed in a hearse!
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And because one of the five stayed in Most, was
assiduously enterprising, earned money and wisely
invested, after some time he could buy even the
Poesie. He fixed it up, replaced the upholstery on the
seats, and rechristened it the Prince Restaurant.
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an appearance, occupied
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they open the doors to the balcony to hear the same
sound they had all heard before in their strollers and as
men in the army, a sound they wished never to hear
again, especially on the main street of their city.
“Now it’ll never dry!” Mr. Novák proclaims, gazing at
the tanks tearing the asphalt of the main street with
their treads, their noise tearing the eardrums of those
great pals of Mozart, those pitch-perfect Czechs, the
pennyweight heroes for whom Blaník had been
exchanged for Bílá hora.
And for ages men disappeared into pubs and boys
didn’t grow up to be men, though their dreams were
of such kind as if they had long ago formed The
Brotherhood of Cremation.
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an appearance, sporting
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with it to keep the pained tears from your cheeks.
And if you succeed? It’s like an orgasm touching
eternity. Though it lasts only a short while, it can
reproduce you to the infinitude of being.
Then the sweat and the rhythm reverberate in the
atmosphere for a long time after. And if I gaze into
the sporting hall, I become all bathed in sweat.
And if I hit up against the needle wrongly — also in
blood.
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