(Prague is…)
A city that laughs at millennia,
A city that once was ten cities,
A city where Ashkenazim took shelter from pogrom and persecution,
A city where history not only lives but thrives,
A city where music and theatre are life,
A city where life is musical threatre,
A city where dozens of architectural caprices commingle and somehow it works,
A city that knows the true value of flowers,
A city that bends with the river,
A city that knows the river,
A city that goes to Mickey D’s when it’s tired of heavenly suppers,
A city of small-b and Big-B Bohemians,
A city of dogs on the tramway,
A city of 70 kph on the freeway,
A city of biodiesel pumps and special places to dispose of glass,
A city where garnets have healing powers,
A city where a crystal vase shares a pitcher of Pilsner with Grand Opera,
A city where transfusions might be pints of Pilsner or Budvar,
A city that opens all the senses at once,
A city with sidewalks that torture cheap shoes,
A city of sleva, sleva, sleva (sale, sale, sale)
A city whose language science may prove is English spoken backwards,
A city that a continent looks to as a model of size, speed, heart,
A city that has always stood for learning,
A city that promotes the holistic humanity,
A city with problems, yes (no city could escape city-problems, nor would a
city without such properly be called a city), but, too,
A city that calls the world comfortably home,
A city that the world comfortably calls home.
(Note: This is an impressionistic poem, not a chronological or even quite accurate retelling of events.—dbc)
Csongor interrupts the splitting of poplar logs
To heed the chimes of his electronic communication gizmo.
The logs will feed the furnace that makes warm showers possible.
In rapid Érdely dialect he calmly tells the gizmo, “Send me an e-mail.”
I hit the switch to engage the struggling pump and prepare to luxuriate,
Sponging away yesterday’s road grime,
Euro-pop CD in the kitchen boom-chicking my adrenal glands to life.
Awaiting on the table are homemade bread,
Eggs from the bantam cooperative behind the garage,
Cheese, mineral water, soy cakes, sausage.
(Csongor digs Eastern mysticism and lets the sausage lie.)
His mother, an eternal smile, hobbles from stove to table,
Dispenses endless bounty, while chattering in lilting Magyar.
Suspicions arise that I may become foie gras, though the feeding is not forced.
(These Transylvanians have a reputation to uphold!)
Lunch will be no less a quiet spectacle,
Pálinka included—and pálinka, and
If one is not careful, pálinka,
The humble caraway’s glorious offspring,
Which these noble-sprung peasants pour forth to irrigate the soul.
Csongor has seen some of the world beyond his village,
Yet always returns to family, friends, church,
And the grubby little magazin attached to the village discotheque.
His efforts at English are commendable;
His commendations for my mangled Magyar, effusive.
The world has stuck its nose into this community, too, and
Soon the old open-pit mine will be a resort; the church, a museum;
Kürtöskalács (once an exclusive delicacy) will sell like hotcakes
In the streets of Brooklyn. Yes,
Those pastry horns, freshly fired, swiftly devoured, as swiftly replenished,
Foster the illusion of home 10,000 kilometers from paychecks and kin.
Dinner, ancient music from well-worn instruments,
Kids in traditional get-ups twirling, leaping, disciplining their boots,
And deftly returning to earth,
All
Stop
Time
Even as skies darken and drops plink through linden leaves.
Time is one—then, now, tomorrow matters not.
Humanity is family, love knows no language,
Your gift is your self.
Csongor knows and lives this reality,
A reality so lost to the heat-and-serve world across the ocean,
A reality, an authenticity, for which we pine,
Knowingly or not.
