THERE WAS A TIME, OH PILGRIM, WHEN THE STONES WERE NOT SO SMOOTH
THE END
07 01 2022
595 pp. 174,838 words
The Ghost of Kafka walks
(not stalks)
The streets
Of Prague.
Prague,
(The place he would/could
Never leave
Until the last
Half year of his life)
He described as:
“The little Mother has claws.”
Which she did.
For him.
He managed
(In the last half year of his life)
To escape to Berlin
During one of
The
Worst times
Anyone could live
In Berlin
Until the end of the
Second World War.
But
That was years
Away.
But he escaped
With a young
Lover,
Which made things
So much
Better.
But his Ghost only
Walks
The streets of
Prague
Whereas
Kafka’s Ghost
Stalks
The rest of
The World.
~ D. E. BA U.E.
I have noted some folk looking at this post from a couple of years ago. I had put it up because of the success of the television series, A Handmaid’s Tale.
Now, Ms. Atwood has produced a new novel, The Testaments, [which, by the way, has a brilliant front and back cover] with an international launch from London, England. I can humbly state that my part in her literary life remains the same.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was not my intent to piss off Margaret Atwood.
The opposite, in fact. I wanted her to know she was an inspiration.
She was giving a reading at the University of New Brunswick in my student days. I attended, but there was quite the gathering and she was whisked away at the end. However, I overheard there was a ‘gathering’ in her honour. Invitation only, of course. Academia and literati.
I crashed the party (that was the term used by the professor who clapped his sturdy hand upon my shoulder but – happily – did not thrust me into the night).
But Ms. Atwood was kept deep in many a learned conversation and I had no opportunity to converse. I did, however, overhear where she would be spending next afternoon – the historic University Observatory.
Next day I knocked upon the Observatory door.
It was not a cheerful Margaret Atwood who answered, and answered with alacrity.
She asked my name.
She asked my business.
And she asked how the hell I knew where she was. She had stolen the day to do some writing. Some ‘real’ writing, in this window-of-opportunity grudgingly offered on the book tour.
At least I was there to praise Atwood and not to bury her with some essay question.
Nor had I a manuscript to hand to her.
I might not have garnered a smile, but her curt thank you was reward enough.
For me, at least.
It’s one of those nights,
Black as Paw, my cat/kitten,
With one white mitten.
Paw knows it, too.
A calm night
Or – more –
Becalmed.
Something has stopped
While on its way
Past Partridge Island,
Coming in from the sea
Or going out to the sea.
As it passes,
It hovers,
It ponders,
It sucks in the air
And holds its breath.
Neither the one of us
Want to go out
To see what it is.
Paw sits with
His back to the door.
And I
Will put off
Trimming the wick
Until Paw
Turns around.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
My book of short stories, The Elephant Talks to God, consists of many conversations that an Elephant has with God. In one of the stories, he breaks out into {his version of} poetry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The monkeys, in the trees,
Cause a breeze, when they sneeze.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I nudged the boulder with my shoulder.
It was older, and much colder.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is a stone, which has grown
In a zone, all alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It is a thrill, to have free will,
That is until, others say `nil’.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That’s not my last, don’t be so fast,
My muse to cast, into the past.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rock of ages, dissolved in stages,
And proved the sages’, `noblesse obliges’.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s just a guess, I do confess,
That more is less, in the wilderness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God – as God is wont to do – did have the last word.
Poems are made by fools like thee,
But only I can make a tree.
Paw, my cat/kitten,
Black as the Ides of March
With one white mitten,
Has a green ribbon
Tied around his neck,
As we stand on the dock
And welcome the arrival of Sister Darling,
Of The Rarefied Church of the World (reformed)
On this Saint Patrick’s Day,
She steps off the fishing boat,
And unceremoniously hands me
A hefty cauldron,
As she scoops up Paw
And holds him close, the way
(I trust)
She will eventually hold me.
“Irish stew,” says she.
But I didn’t even have to guess,
For I can recite, by smell,
The ingredients.
Lamb on the bone
Carrots/celery
onions/leeks/garlic
Bay leaf/sea salt/black pepper
Lots of potatoes
And two (I hope) pints of ale.
“You are right,” she says
As Paw snuggles into her hair,
“And you will get
A Reward.”
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2023 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
I allowed Paw, my cat/kitten
Black as all thunder
With one white mitten,
To walk, without cage or leash,
On this so-close to Spring day.
He’s gotta learn.
So, I was surprised when
He came dashing back,
Hooked a claw to my pant leg,
And pulled me forward.
I followed.
Down near the shore,
Close to the water.
Was a deer.
It had a hoof trapped
Between rocks.
Deer don’t swim over often,
And when they do,
They don’t stay.
But this doe,
In her way, young as Paw,
Was not going to leave.
Paw went up to her.
She didn’t struggle.
And, I swear to God
– Yes, Jehovah Himself –
That Paw started digging
Around the hoof.
Now, I would have had
Heavy second thoughts
Of helping,
If it had been a back leg.
One kick, and it would have been
Arse over teakettle for me.
But the deer tolerated Paw,
And Paw tolerated me,
And I got her free in a minute.
And away she ran.
And away she swam.
And I swear again to God
– Yes, Jehovah Himself –
Paw smiled.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report
DE BA. UEL
Alison Alexandra sometimes thinks of turning over a new leaf.
Sometimes at the most traditional of times, like at New Year or her birthday or under a full moon or when the tide is at its highest.
But then she remembers that well into her pre-teen years she thought the expression to turn over a new leaf meant reaching into the branches of a tree and flipping her wrist (somewhat like Amanda does when cutting cards) and when she found out the flip flip flipping concerned paper pages she was so bored she never did it. No, not once.
And anyway, why would she overturn anything in some sort of orderly fashion when she pell-mell turns things over at the very time they seem that they need to be overturned and not a minute or an hour or a full moon or one leaf later.
That now is indeed now is, indeed, now. And, as she daily finds out from her windows or cliffs overlooking the ocean; tide and time await no Alison Alexandra. So she will not wait for them.
Alison Alexandra has often thought – and she also often thinks – that she could happily turn over all her leaves just from her prow-of-a-ship room jutting into the sea or the cliffs that, as yet, do not erode under her feet as she walks them looking out to sea. But that would be unwise and probably as stagnant as a rotting fish that sometimes lodges itself at the base of her cliff and, though she has not travelled as often as those sailors and their spy glasses, she has travelled as far as many of them just to keep those leaves flip flip flipping.
So, today she is going to walk to town.
It is difficult to say whether Kafka would want this type of attention.
He really liked the ladies (and many ladies really liked him). He was rarely without such companionship; he enjoyed a notable age range (mind you, he died at forty-one); he was engaged to his long-suffering Felice twice (though he never married); and his last lover (twenty years younger) attempted to leap into his open grave.
But Kafka was a private person, off and on the page (it is estimated he destroyed 70% of all his written work). It appears he never gave more than a dozen readings in his life (though he left his audiences rolling in the aisles with laughter). He found much of his own work very funny.
And, he was a good looking man – perpetually young. This is quite a theme on Tic-Tok, where teenage girls metaphorically (and probably physically) sigh. Kafka would like that – but not in public.
But, what is there NOT to like about a handsome and dead author? They offer so much, and do not disappoint.
Here is an article about the Kafka phenomena on TikTok: https://www.intheknow.com/post/franz-kafka-fancams-meme/
And here is some TikTok Kafka exposure: https://www.tiktok.com/tag/kafka
DE
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in **missing** diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. I am as accurate as I can be in my timeline.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
06 March 1917
In the midst of a conversation with P, I was suddenly asked what I would do “if I discovered that all my beliefs were false”.
P. is generally quite a bore, but because his mind can occasionally take an interesting turn, I do not avoid his company.
The question took me aback.
“My beliefs all false?” I asked.
“Yes.” P. has no sense of humour, but he looked more serious than ever. “If you were given evidence to prove that all your beliefs were wrong.”
“Irrefutable evidence?” I asked.
“Yes. Proof beyond doubt.”
“Then I would have to believe the opposite,” I replied.
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in **missing** diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. It is estimated Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. I am as accurate as I can be in my timeline.
25 February 1917
We live a life where the years are short, yet the days can seem so long. We can be lonely, yet find the company of others tedious. I would guess I walked for hours today, so little inclination had I to do anything else. Yet now, with the time soon upon me to go down into the city, I feel as if the day had barely started. The people – numerous, interminable people – whom I met on my walk, wished to drown me in their banal conversations.
I would flee one, only to run into a couple; escape them, only to be tracked by a family. They enticed me into coffee shops, tricked me into homes, cross-referenced me for their supper tables.
They would even forego meat, they said, if I would only stay. I wanted to tell them that I would actually eat meat, if only I could leave.
And on it seemed to go, an endless day crammed with intruders.
But now, with bare minutes racing toward a new morning, I wish someone sat in my chair beside the lamp, so we could talk deep into the dark.
The Princess Royal: From Princess Mary to Princess Anne by Helen Cathcart
An engrossing account of the life of Princess Anne and how her role was shaped by the six women who served as Princess Royal before her.
To understand what it is to be a Princess Royal, the ‘doyenne of royal biographers’ Helen Cathcart skilfully portrays the lives of the foremost royal daughters from the days when princesses were ‘ladyes’ and the King’s eldest son was styled Prince Royal, through to our present Princess Royal.
There have been seven Princess Royals throughout British history, the inaugural of whom was Princess Mary, the eldest daughter of King Charles I and Queen Henrietta Maria, followed by Princess Anne (daughter of King George II), Princess Charlotte (daughter of King George III), Princess Victoria (daughter of Queen Victoria), Princess Louise (daughter of King Edward VII), and Princess Mary (daughter of King George V). The current holder of the title, Princess Anne, emerges from this background, clearly demonstrating how the role or Princess Royal has evolved over the generations into one of duty and personal achievement.
Drawing on royal letters, journals and associated material, the author’s fascinating pen captures the first four decades of Princess Anne’s life, from playful child and stylish teenager to champion rider and tireless campaigner for good causes. Along the way are royal engagements and regimental dinners, a love affair with a Dragoon and a terrifying kidnap attempt.
The Princess Royal is the definitive account of what it means to be the first and most royal of royal daughters and how Princess Anne is truly a Princess Royal for our times.
316 pages, Paperback
First published September 19, 2021
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/60148062-the-princess-royal
kafkaestblog 