In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • Kraków Sketchbook
  • Robert C. Jones (bio)

The Trumpeter

Cold. A Tartar wind through Florian’s Gate. Roses and snowflakes in the market square. Flower stall roofs bloom white and red. Mary’s Cathedral tower lifts dark against snow. We count the hour. Ten. The window opens, exposes the trumpet’s bell. Wait. Movement slows as brass notes cascade down. In midflight—stop. The window closes.

Czartoryski Museum

The crocodile of schoolchildren, held together by museum slippers and two stern guides, glides toward us. Each child steps by with tentative smile, looks back with careful glance. The Czartoryski—in addition to da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine holds a rare set of Hussar armor. The guidebook tells us “the eagle feather lyre fixed to its back made a halo of sound rushing toward the German knights.” Whispers. Muffled laughter. Scuff of slippers. [End Page 483]

The Jewish Quarter

Casimer: Sunday afternoon. Vacant buildings, padlocked doors. Wind rattles papers in the gutters. Pale light spun from winter sky sifts down the rooftops. One housefront shows the Star of David still. We walk through the quarter. Two boys on cycles follow. They carefully avoid our eyes, veer, then ride closer when we talk. I take pictures: the ruined wall, burned-out storefronts, abandoned synagogue. The end of the street. Shadows stretch and bend. We turn to leave. The boys ride on ahead. Their voices drift back. Whispers from the dead.

Collegium Maius

“Faust in Kraków?” The Collegium historian stops. Considers. “We think not. ‘Faust essetscholasticus cracoviensis’”? He shakes his head. “Hearsay. Alanius, 1590.” Pauses. “Of course, Goethe—you’ve read Goethe? He has Faust come here to learn magic—yes? ‘. . . was die Welt im Innersten zusammenhält . . . . Just so: ‘What holds the world together in its inmost folds.’” Shakes his head again, turns back. We follow him into the long hallway. “Copernicus, now . . .” We gather around the portrait of a young man—dark eyes open wide, proud beak of a nose, lips set in a firm line. “Here is our scholar. Nicolaus Copernicus did not come to Kraków to learn magic. He came to learn stars.” He looks at the portrait. “Yes. To learn this great whirling loom of light, the stars. To learn that the stars turn! That [End Page 484] earth—that life, itself—turns. Must turn until it finds its one still center. Yes.” He nods. “Where? In the stars?” We wait. “No. Not in our stars—in our dreams.” Nods again. “Yes. Those dreams of mortal clay, molded in light, that fall into the whirlpool without sound.” He studies the portrait— the face, the eyes, the firm mouth. He shrugs. “But Goethe chose to write of Faust.” [End Page 485]

Robert C. Jones

Robert C. Jones taught in the department of English and philosophy at the University of Central Missouri for thirty years. His most recent collection of poetry is Two- and Three-Part Inventions: New and Selected Poems.

...

pdf

Share