He completed his studies in Prague in June and was sent to the Balkan Front. He fought in Montenegro and was injured, taken captive, and condemned to death.
A Throwback Poem – Memories of Prague
He wrote his first poems in a student almanac, and sketched an unpublished collection called Songs of a Tubercular Patient. In the same year Biebl entered the Communist Party. When he decided to leave medicine he went to Louny to organize cultural and social life.
In he was offered an opportunity to sail to Java , by his friend Olga whose brother-in-law was on the island. He talked to rebels from the communist and nationalist movements and was interrogated by the police. The voyage inspired Biebl to write a well-known collection of poems and several short stories, and he returned to the topic in most of his following works.
Konstantin Biebl became a well-off communist poet.
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He worked as a dental assistant in his mother's office in the s. He also became active in the Czech Surrealist movement and signed most of the documents published by the Surrealist group in Czechoslovakia.
In he became ill with pancreatitis and went to Karlovy Vary for a cure at the spa. He published his largest book in its largest edition — over 10, copies , the collection of poems Bez obav Unafraid in Kosta, why didn't you just pick up the phone? Madness, madness you make! With the embrace of a constrictor the athlete will end you! To your health, Moravia! Slovakia, slovak!
In the crystal underground, having retreated—prepare the blow: Bohemia! Atlas—that pack of cards: reshuffled, in a luster! Congratulates—every March: —with land, with a share, with the new! Well, and the gambling table! Hands full of trump cards: dressed in their insignia, headless kings, crafty— jacks. So play—tigers! The whole world will remember the games of March. In their trump cards—the game with the European map. Prague—like that! Vienna—like that! What will be cast—Czech rain, Prague offense. The Czechs came up to the Germans and spat. See March newspaper. They took—quickly and took—hugely: took the mountain and took the subsoil, took the coal and took the steel, and what lead we had, and crystal.
They took the sugar and took the clover, took the West and took the North, took the beehive and the haystack, took the South from us, and the East. Karlovy Vary—they took, and the Tatras—they took, they took close by and took distances, but—more painful than our paradise on earth! Did you see how it was cut? Felled— fallen! Just killed—risen! Just as dead wood is green—a moment later! Oh, tears in my eyes! Crying with anger and love!
Oh, Czechoslovakia in tears! Spain in blood! Oh, Black Mountain, the whole world—eclipsed! I refuse—to be. In a Bedlam of nonhumans I refuse—to live.
With wolves in the squares. I refuse—to howl. With sharks on the plains I refuse to float— down—on the spinning current. I have no need for any holes, ears or prophetic eyes.
To your mad world, there is one answer: refusal. Not demons—for the monk, not grief—for the genius, not the mountain avalanche of rock, not the bank flooding—. So I stand, open-mouthed: —People!
What a people! People—such that the poet— herald of all latitudes— that the poet, open-mouthed, stands up—such a people! When no force could claim them, nor gift of grace— to starve such a people out?here
Prague: A Disappearing Poem | Milan Kundera | Granta Magazine
To starve out—granite! They sit—stone and granite, and keep the knowledge… buried in your breast—it burns! Garnet makes —a magnet. That the radium from this breast could be pulled out and handed over: here! In the middle of Europe—alive— to bury such a people? Found in Bohemia, the garnet, or Bohemian garnet, became a symbol of Czech and Bohemian identity during the Czech National Revival of the 18 th and 19 th centuries. You will not die, people! God keeps you! Whose heart gave—garnet, whose breast gave—granite. Be quiet, Bohemian!
Live, other countries! But most painful of all, oh, memorable, more than garnet and crystal— what wounds my heart most of all, these—small! Born in to a family of wealth, she lived most of her adult life in poverty and exile following the Russian Revolution of and the Moscow Famine. Tsvetaeva left the Soviet Union in , living in Berlin and what was then Czechoslovakia before moving to Paris in In , she returned to the Soviet Union, where she died in Despite isolation, political disaster, and personal tragedy, Tsvetaeva wrote extensively throughout her lifetime, including short lyrics, long narrative poems, plays in verse, and literary criticism.
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She currently lives in Tucson. Three hundred years of captivity, twenty years of freedom— Everything. Two decades and barely that! There I raised my son, and there flowed—water? Or geese, a white flock? All natural gifts, all—to one! More generous than the homeland— of My Son! My land, my land, sold all alive, with animals, with gardens, with formations of rock, with the whole people, in the field, without shelter, moaning: —Homeland!
The year—nineteen hundred thirty-eight. The day and month? The forest—ruddy, The day—blue-gray. Twenty soldiers, one officer. Unflinching and round-faced he guards the border. My forest, around, my undergrowth, around, my home, around, mine—this home. Deciduous dark. Heart fright: If the Prussians move? If the heart knocks? My forest, farewell! My century, farewell!