Jogruffy
I used to be so vague
about some place called...Prague?
but now my mind's enlarg-
ed, I know it's really Prague..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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There was an Old Lady of Prague,
Whose language was horribly vague;
When they said, 'Are these caps?'
She answered, 'Perhaps!'
That oracular Lady of Prague.
quote by by Edward Lear
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Cafe Prague.
Cream coloured coffee
And hot buttered toast
August sunshine
A packet of cigarettes
Talks on love and life
Friends and strangers all together
Days of summer
Seated on outside chairs
Tears and laughter
Mixed in the air
Of the perfect day just us and them
Cafe pavements
The world at view
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Used coffee cups
And ashtrays too
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Trendy young girls
And the wannabe author
Auster, Adams and Mr. Salinger
Days of dreaming
The perfect film
In view for all to see
Hello, hello
So good to see you
Was it twelve?
Or maybe it was two
I’ll sit and wait
And think of you
Cafe pavements
For me and you
Pairs, Rome and cafe Prague
Dirty spoons and knives
And glasses too
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Teacups and Earl grey
And ice cream sundaes
Black and white life
In full technicolour
Light my cigarette
And I’ll listen all day
Sunshine days
Storm clouds - away
The table over there
Just a smiling man
For today - all alone
Waiting his time
Cafe pavements
The world today
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Beautiful Ladies
And business gents
Paris, Rome and Cafe Prague
Student cameras
And picture painting
Hollywood lifestyle
In the common street
Brando, Dean and Al Pacino
Next to you and me
See you later
Maybe tomorrow
Give me a ring
And we’ll make a date
I’ll sit and think
And wait for you
Cafe pavements
For meetings and lunch
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
Perfect tables
And used up chairs
Paris, Rome and cafe Prague
poem by Patrick Sant
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Prague is the Paris of the '90s.
quote by Marion Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Well, it's the Czech Republic now, but more specifically Prague. I went there when I was 12.
quote by Anwar Robinson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nowadays they either want to move the film to Canada or in some cases they go to Prague or Romania or they want to keep 'em down in L.A.
quote by Philip Kaufman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I go to Prague every year if I can, value my relationships there like gold, and feel myself in a sense Czech, with all their hopes and needs. They are a people I not only love, but admire.
quote by Ellis Peters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So I left with Jean Claude and went to Paris, so when the Russians came to Prague, I was in Paris.
quote by Milos Forman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We had a poster of the Davis Cup in 1986. It was in Prague, the Czech Republic against Sweden, and we went to watch, so I got the poster. You couldn't get all the posters. You were lucky if you got one.
quote by Martina Hingis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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looking for God
it was the wrong choice
looking for God
in far places
in Bethlehem
a tour in Israel and Prague
in Medjugorie and
France
what mediocrity and
what expense!
pause
and be silent and listen
all the while
He is inside your heart
waiting
for your knocks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nine Cities Of Six Lines
New York is ultimate but too old a memory to know
San Fran in Fall which is there summer
Prague, Paris and London see first across the sea
Berlin for a once divided world
Venice to debunk the hype
Casablanca - Fez when you've seen the rest.
poem by Bill Grace
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August 1968
It’s spring and people
are dancing in the streets in Czechoslovakia
and in Prague people are free.
Until the gigantic Russian bear growls
and beats its chest
and rushes in for the kill
and gobbles up
everything and everyone
that it find in its way
and still stays a monster,
without any sense
of being more
than an ignorant bloodthirsty beast.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Don’t Dress Up For the Occasion
Don’t dress up for the occasion
It’s only you and me
And a lyric without explanation
With words coming steadily
Writing thoughts on a sheet
Riming it all into place
Naming the text what it need
- Oh, there are so many ways
I could go on and ask you
What should I fix up more?
Then you could tell me what to do
To make me feel more assure
Expressions warped in text
Playfully the words are fixed
I can't explain what comes next
It’s complicated and mixed
Something perhaps about Prague
I traveled there longtime ago
Or maybe of a stray street dog
I came through the years to know
Together sometimes we walked the street
And blabbered full of nonsense
He and me and little ‘twiddle tweet’
Became all friends by accidents…
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Denisa
Ray of sunshine
When she smiles
Energetic
Sunflower
Wise young angel
Introduced
By pure fate
I see a much
Younger version
Of me in her
Exuberance
A few days
In Chicago
An afternoon
In Prague with a
Kindred spirit
I realize
How blessed I am
To have met this
Sister/daughter
Again in this
My last lifetime
© Alice Vedral Rivera - 2009 cz
poem by Alice Vedral Rivera
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Yadu
Trees cover her
in red lured by
the skirts in Prague.
There is grass that
grows: (while sharks mourn
the larks of some vermilion lips)
high-heels. They stir
waters. Birds. When
the turn of cars
stops the parting
of punk pink people she recalls Dad:
how he would curl
by the world's need
of blurbs on dark
skies and stars-walk
the park with wide open umbrellas.
Lesbian. Sir,
she's a girl lo-
ver. Blurts out far
from Father who,
stopped fishing. Since Fish don't talk. Awful.
*(a variation of the Burmese poetry form)
poem by Afrodita Nikolova
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Father Explains
"There where that ray touches the plain
And the shadows escape as if they really ran,
Warsaw stands, open from all sides,
A city not very old but quite famous.
"Farther, where strings of rain hang from a little cloud,
Under the hills with an acacia grove
Is Prague. Above it, a marvelous castle
Shored against a slope in accordance with old rules.
"What divides this land with white foam
Is the Alps. The black means fir forests.
Beyond them, bathing in the yellow sun
Italy lies, like a deep-blue dish.
"Among the many fine cities that are there
You will recogni2e Rome, Christendom's capital,
By those round roofs on the church
Called the Basilica of Saint Peter.
"And there, to the north, beyond a bay,
Where a level bluish mist moves in waves,
Paris tries to keep pace with its tower
And reins in its herd of bridges.
"Also other cities accompany Paris,
They are adorned with glass, arrayed in iron,
But for today that would be too much,
I'll tell the rest another time
poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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The Last Ditch
LOVE, through your varied views on Art
Untiring have I followed you,
Content to know I had your heart
And was your Art-ideal, too.
As, dear, I was when first we met.
('Twas at the time you worshipped Leighton,
And were attempting to forget
Your Foster and your Noel Paton.)
'Love rhymes with Art,' said your dear voice,
And, at my crude, uncultured age,
I could but blushingly rejoice
That you had passed the Rubens stage.
When Madox Brown and Morris swayed
Your taste, did I not dress and look
Like any Middle Ages maid
In an illuminated book?
I wore strange garments, without shame,
Of formless form and toneless tones,
I might have stepped out of the frame
Of a Rossetti or Burne-Jones.
I stole soft frills from Marcus Stone,
My waist wore Herkomer's disguise,
My slender purse was strained, I own,
But--my silk lay as Sargent's lies.
And when you were abroad--in Prague--
'Mid Cherets I had shone, a star;
Then for your sake I grew as vague
As Mr. Whistler's ladies are.
But now at last you sue in vain,
For here a life's submission ends:
Not even for you will I grow plain
As Aubrey Beardsley's 'lady friends.'
Here I renounce your hand--unless
You find your Art-ideal elsewhere;
I will not wear the kind of dress
That Laurence Housman's people wear!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Love You More
Space between the kisses
Paris blue art
Color like the melting candle
Delivered from restrictive structure
Meaning in the relative streets
The times between the wars
Freedom like surreal gold wings
The mind is the greatest drug
I open to jazz like a hungry lion
Breeze washes through the trees
You are the Chloe of art
Bass notes rich with sultry life
Slow deep sax notes
Emotion brings new clouds
Opaque joy
Radiant past connected with narrow alleys
Universal light in sunsets of purple whispers
The baby cries in the other room
We always make love
We are sensuous rivers
Balcony dawn
French Quarter wrought iron
Parades that drift like a Dali painting
You are spring my love in Hawaii
You are Prague and Kafka
You are Monroe in silk stockings
Miles Davis and Coltrane make me love You more
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Kral Majales (King of May)
And the Communists have nothing to offer but fat cheeks and eyeglasses and
lying policemen
and the Capitalists proffer Napalm and money in green suitcases to the
Naked,
and the Communists create heavy industry but the heart is also heavy
and the beautiful engineers are all dead, the secret technicians conspire for
their own glamour
in the Future, in the Future, but now drink vodka and lament the Security
Forces,
and the Capitalists drink gin and whiskey on airplanes but let Indian brown
millions starve
and when Communist and Capitalist assholes tangle the Just man is arrested
or robbed or has his head cut off,
but not like Kabir, and the cigarette cough of the Just man above the clouds
in the bright sunshine is a salute to the health of the blue sky.
For I was arrested thrice in Prague, once for singing drunk on Narodni
street,
once knocked down on the midnight pavement by a mustached agent who
screamed out BOUZERANT,
once for losing my notebooks of unusual sex politics dream opinions,
and I was sent from Havana by planes by detectives in green uniform,
and I was sent from Prague by plane by detectives in Czechoslovakian
business suits,
Cardplayers out of Cezanne, the two strange dolls that entered Joseph K's
room at morn
also entered mine and ate at my table, and examined my scribbles,
and followed me night and morn from the houses of the lovers to the cafes of
Centrum -
And I am the King of May, which is the power of sexual youth,
and I am the King of May, which is long hair of Adam and Beard of my
own body
and I am the King of May, which is Kral Majales in the Czechoslovakian
tongue,
and I am the King of May, which is old Human poesy, and 100,000 people
chose my name,
and I am the King of May, and in a few minutes I will land at London
Airport,
and I am the King of May, naturally, for I am of Slavic parentage and a
Buddhist Jew
who whorships the Sacred Heart of Christ the blue body of Krishna the
straight back of Ram
the beads of Chango the Nigerian singing Shiva Shiva in a manner which
I have invented,
and the King of May is a middleeuropean honor, mine in the XX century
despite space ships and the Time Machine, because I have heard the voice of Blake
in a vision
and repeat that voice. And I am the King of May that sleeps with teenagers
laughing.
And I am the King of May, that I may be expelled from my Kingdom with
Honor, as of old,
To show the difference between Caesar's Kingdom and the Kingdom of the
May of Man -
and I am the King of May because I touched my finger to my forehead
saluting
a luminous heavy girl trembling hands who said 'one moment Mr. Ginsberg'
before a fat young Plainclothesman stepped between our bodies - I was
going to England -
and I am the King of May, in a giant jetplane touching Albion's airfield
trembling in fear
as the plane roars to a landing on the gray concrete, shakes & expels air,
and rolls slowly to a stop under the clouds with part of blue heaven still
visible.
And tho' I am the King of May, the Marxists have beat me upon the street,
kept me up all night in Police Station, followed me thru Springtime
Prague, detained me in secret and deported me from our kingdom by
airplane.
This I have written this poem on a jet seat in mid Heaven.
poem by Allen Ginsberg
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Vagueness: The Letter
I was angry
and high.
anger is always high.
-When I brake all my rules and standards.-
I wrote
a vague
letter
to Eileen,
i was vague,
my anger was vague,
as well as the words,
the comma, and the vague spacing between the dots.
I should be simple
in writing
all my letters to her.
the vagueness should be left to the ink.
poem by Atef Ayadi
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Road to Success
The road to success is not straight,
There is a curve called FAILURE,
A loop called CONFUSION,
Speed bumps called FRIENDS,
Red light called ENEMIES and
caution lights called FAMILY.
But if you have a spare called
DETERMINATION,
An engine called PERSEVERANCE,
Insurance called FAITH and
A driver called JESUS (GOD, ALLAH, ISHVAR)
You will make it to a place called
SUCCESS
poem by Pratiksha Jain
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