To be at my most truthful,
“I was there first
Waiting for the bus.”
But then one crow came along,
And settled into a tree,
And then fluttered to the ground,
And then hopped upon the fallen leaves,
Making quite a noise, it must be said.
And I, of course, looked around,
And up and down,
Because I didn’t want any sorrow.
But within a minute of my searching,
Another crow settled into a tree
So there would be joy in my life.
Then it hopped and landed on the ground,
And made a fuss in the grass,
Which perhaps encouraged a third crow
To swoop and settle beside it.
So then I assumed a letter
Was coming to my door,
But then crow number four
Made a quartet
Just as the bus arrived.
Then all eight eyes
Fixed me with a stare,
As the doors swung open
And I paid my fare.
DE BA UEL
In my novel, Kafka In The Castle, I fill in all the lost diary entries that he either ignored or destroyed.
Today, on Facebook, there is a wonderful video from Prague Morning, showing a lamp lighter walking the length of Charles Bridge (in the direction of ‘Kafka’s Castle’), lighting all the lamps. Kafka made this walk hundreds of times (and I managed a few, myself).
The following is the entry I made of Kafka crossing the Bridge, and what he pondered.
Excerpt From Kafka in The Castle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
29 August 1917
I strolled the Charles Bridge a long time tonight, before coming on to the castle. I have the feeling that the river air helps my lungs.
I also like the city lights reflecting from the racing water. And the occasional boat, lanterns stern and bow.
I have once or twice steered my own boat through the dark, the flickering light dripping through the gloom before me. If I could have reached the sea while it was still dark, I would have tried to do so. But I was younger then. And could breathe deeply.
Fantasy fuelled this escape, from my Moldau island and then along the Elbe, through Dresden, Magdeburg and Hamburg, to the freedom of Helgoland Bay. Further into the North Sea, if I wanted. Perhaps to Iceland, where I could become lost in the snow and white.
All this, from my perch upon the Charles Bridge, as I strolled from side to side, and one end to the other. My last smile reserved for the statues staring down on me.
Their stony expressions etched upon their faces, as are mine to me.
Link to Lamp Lighting story:
https://praguemorning.cz/lamp-lighter-on-the-charles-bridge-to-come-back-after-two-years/
Sister Darling takes
Her Ministrations
To her far flung flock
Seriously,
And never more so
Than at Festive times.
An outgoing fishing boat
Dropped her off early
At my Lighthouse dock.
And her
. . . admittedly . . .
Earthy ministrations
Took the place of breakfast.
But she had also
Brought foodstuffs
And
An Advent calendar.
She let me pluck out
The first gift.
A substantial chaw
Of Spruce gum,
Which will last me long.
She also brought
A small bag
Full of some herb,
For my cat/kitten.
Let me tell you,
He was kept right occupied
All day long.
(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL
A Brigantine
Hove to,
As it came past
The Lighthouse,
On its way
Into harbour.
A rowboat came to
My small dock,
And,
Deposited a cask
Of Caribbean rum,
Compliments of my cousin,
The ship’s Boatswain.
And it appears
The fame,
Of my cat/kitten,
Black as the rum
With one white mitten,
Is spreading across the seas.
Though perhaps, not
All seven of them.
For there was also,
A ball of twine,
With some loose ends,
That has become
An instant,
And favourite,
Plaything.
(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL
Tend to a Lighthouse,
On an island,
On the sea,
And you get the feel
And the smell
Of the weather,
Moving toward you.
So,
There’s a blow
Heading this way.
I’ve put up the rope,
Between my house
And the Lighthouse,
To grab onto
Some Jeezly fierce.
And I’ll be carrying
My cat/kitten,
Black as a storm cloud,
With one white mitten,
In his cage.
‘Cause he’s a
Fierce little bugger,
And will go out
Into it
To his
Peril.
He’s been sniffing
The storm,
And the excitement
Consumes him.
(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL
The call of the loon
Is plaintive,
And crazy,
And seems to fill
The Harbour,
And
Maybe even
The moon itself.
Because it sounds,
As if,
It can go that far.
It makes my cat/kitten,
Black as night,
With one white mitten,
Shiver
And hiss
And not stray far
From me.
Though Paw
Is tempted,
By the full moon
On the surface
Of the harbour.
And peers,
And mutters,
And even dips,
His one white paw
Into
The yellow,
And mellow,
Wide band
Of moonlight
Streaming
Right at him
Across
The water.
(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL
The cat/kitten,
Black as a crow
With one white mitten,
(I call him Paw),
Was prowling
By the Lighthouse,
As he likes
To do,
When two crows
Decided
On a bit of
Sport.
They flew toward him,
Then one veered
Left,
And the other
Right.
Paw twisted,
And dodged,
And fell
Ass over tea kettle.
And I,
For the first time
In my life,
Heard
The laughter of crows.
(I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}DE BA. UEL)
Well, first, I would never ask Ms. Thunberg to move over. I would, indeed, stand aside and let her take my place. I say “Thank God” and “Blessed Be!” that someone like her is kicking ass to save the planet.
And, anyway, my up close and personal warning will not fit into this last day of the COP26 gathering. It comes too late.
But it only happened this morning.
Through the wee hours of 13 November, I had to open two of my windows, turn my fan on high, and discard bedclothes in my attempt to sleep, and I was not fully successful.
13 November, There is supposed to be snow and freezing temperatures. There was not.
With the dawn finally allowing light into the sky, I turned on the radio. I was told, in no uncertain terms (because it was repeated) that the dockyard on the harbour was the warmest place in all of Canada. 13C.
I took particular (and startled) attention to this, because the dockyard on the harbour is at the foot of my street. I was in the hottest place in Canada.
13C on 13 November.
This is Climate Change!
This is Global Warming.
I understand if folk would rather talk to Greta Thunberg about this subject (so would I).
But, for the moment, I am living proof.
I am attired
In my navel uniform,
Which I am sometimes
Expected to wear,
In service
To my Monarch.
I represent the might
Of Majesty,
As sole subject,
Yet overlord,
Of the Lighthouse
On Partridge Island
I am to stand at
Attention,
And even salute,
As a Man of War,
All three masts
And 124 cannon,
Sails past from harbour
On its way to sea.
The Captain
Will stand
On the bow
To salute me.
I am going to give
Each owner,
Of every telescope
Trained on me,
A treat,
And
A tale to tell.
I am going to be holding
Paw,
My cat/kitten,
Black as night
With one white mitten,
In his cage,
To let him
Inspect this departing,
Fighting ship.
I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2021 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}
DE BA. UEL
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