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May 2024

If The Flag Can’t Fly, Do We Still Salute?

HMS Styx, Her Majesty’s Sloop-of-War,

Steam engine and paddle driven,

Six guns on deck,

Paused on its way into harbour,

To deliver a package

From the good Queen herself.

It is a snapping-new


Union Jack,

To be hoisted from

The top of the Lighthouse.

The idea was that,

It would be seen for miles.

So, I opened the package

Opened the package

Opened the package

And, when finally,

The package was open.

Her Majesty’s flag could be

Wrapped around the Lighthouse

Twice.

It can’t be hung

By man nor beast.

I won’t even try

To guess

The way our masters think.

But – at least –


I will not have to teach

A patriotic salute

To Paw, my Cat/kitten,

Black as a Jolly Roger

With one white mitten.

Which will be a relief

To us both.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

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A Question From Kafka: “Me, Myself, and I – Who are we?”

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

30 May 1918

          If wishes were horses; K, The Herr Doktor of Laws, and Frankie – perhaps, most of all, poor Frankie – would mount and ride toward the mountains, toward the sea, toward that place where we would not be we.

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When Kafka Saves The World, Does He Become God?

The old rabbi moved on his bed.

The young man raced over.
«Yes, Rebbe?»

The old rabbi opened his eyes, showing the
cast of death that has almost consumed him.
«Ka…» he groaned.

The young man had been told the dying rabbi would never regain his senses. He leaned closer.
«What do you want?»

The old rabbi struggled for breath.

The young man gazed at pallid features and clouded eyes.
« What can I do?» He put his ear over the gaping mouth.

«Ka… Ka…»

One last ragged breath, a hollow whisper.
«Kafka died for your sins.»


This piece of Flash Fiction was one of the 250 finalists, from the 35,609 stories from 149 countries, entered in the International IV Edition of the Flash Fiction Competition Museum of Words.

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Where Do You Find The Ghost Of Kafka?

The Ghost of Kafka walks

– not stalks –


The streets

Of Prague.


 Prague,

The city he would/could

Never leave

Until the last

Year of his life.

He described Prague as:
“The little Mother has claws.”

Which she did.

For him.


He managed


To escape to Berlin,

During one of

The worst times

Anyone could live

In Berlin,

Until the end of the

Second World War.

But

The Second World War

Was years away.


He escaped with a young

Lover – Dora Diamant.

She made things

So much better.


However, his Ghost only

Walks the streets of Prague.


Whereas

Kafka’s Ghost

Stalks

The rest of

The World.

DE

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Kafka Hopes To Prove His Worth On A Farm (from “Kafka In The Castle”)

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

27 May 1917

          I shall visit Ottla. She asks that I come. She has been gone six weeks to the day. I could go next Saturday morning and stay two nights. I doubt the Director would mind. I could be back by noon, and work into the evening. Perhaps bring him eggs, or other farm produce. It would be appreciated with the shortages. She wrote that she could put me to work, if I’m worried about getting in the way. I know that she’ll really let me do what I want, but I actually would enjoy some chores. Some wood chopped, some earth hoed. More than the vapour which is the only result of thought. I’m sure she could find something for which I’m competent. I should do no worse than the other dumb animals.

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Letter To Kafka, Soon One Hundred Years Dead

Dear F:

I have found your reality is actually real.

Although it will give you no pleasure – well, ‘little’ pleasure – you are correct in all your observations. 

1. Governments become the tools of the bureaucracies which run them. It doesn’t matter what type of Government, from the monarchy under which you lived, to the right wing horror of fascists that called themselves socialists, to the inept socialism pretending to be ‘for the people’. All three governments held sway over the city where you spent your life.  All three oppressed the people they ruled. All three looked after themselves first.

2. Writers are either writers or they aren’t. The urge to write encircles one like a snake around its prey. Feed it and it won’t quite squeeze you to death. You can not ignore it – even at your peril. It is with you every hour of every day, ever inquisitive and (sadly) always looking for something better.

3. Love is a see-saw of extremes. Every high guarantees a low. Every low reaches for a high. Every high reaches for a high. When these hills and valleys are eventually levelled, they are still desired.

4. Sex is highly overrated. The thing of it is, even rated fairly ” ’tis a consummation devoutly to be had”.  Yes – I know – you appreciate Shakespeare. On a par with Goethe, even if you can’t bring yourself to say the words.

5. There is no Castle with walls thick enough to hide against the perils of being human.  Which is why you never tried.

6. Except the grave, of course.

7. Except the grave.

 Yours,

D.

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Dignity Is A Cheap Suit Of Clothes

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

24 May 1917

          Even with all the shortages of the war, I’m told no one wants to move into the house next to me. I’m just as pleased if it remains vacant, but I do wonder at the qualms of other people. Death is nothing but a liberator. It gives a blessing. 

There may be no dignity in the type of death my neighbour chose, but dignity is a cheap suit of clothes. It is of no importance as you undress for Eternity.

 But maybe this hesitation of moving next door is not from disgust. Maybe the fear is that it can happen again – that the house has taken on such powers of persuasion. 

The door of the evil eye. 

If I could believe such a thing, I would move in before the night was out. But I fear I don’t believe in anything which is not inside of me.

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So I’m Told

Old.

And cold.

And not so bold.

Broke the mold.

There is no gold.

It’s time to fold.

Nothing to hold.

Bought and sold.

DE

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Will Kafka Slip/Slide His Way Through May?

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

22 May 1917

          There was even some snow. 

         They spoke of it at the office. Further down the river some snow and thunder together. 

               Hysteria traced the words of one man, who claimed he had good information – which he could not reveal – that the enemy has a great machine which can control the weather. That is how they are going to win the war. Freeze us in May, and destroy all our crops. 

                “And where are these giant weather engines?” somebody asked. 

                “In France,” was his reply, but he said it with such hesitancy that I knew it was a guess. 

                 “No machine could cause us trouble from that far away,” said another, and there was laughter before work resumed. 

                  Laughter without a touch of mirth.

DE

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