Poet, son of the writer Lev Blatný (1894-1930). Born in Brno, he spent the first part of his life here – before escaping into exile in 1948. He lived in a house...
Poet, translator and publicist, Brno born, spent his childhood and youth here. He learned the bookseller’s trade from A. Píša and for a brief period (1919–1921)...
Poet and publicist. Lived in Brno from 1937 until his death, latterly at Mášova street. He is linked to several cultural institutions (the Brno studios of Czechoslovak...
Poet, publicist, memoirist. The first – and so far the only Czech to receive the Nobel prize for Literature. In addition to the lasting popularity he won through...
Poet, writer, editor and translator. Spent most of his life in Brno and is closely linked to a number of Brno cultural institutions (the magazine Host do domu...
Poet and schoolteacher. His connection to Brno dates back to his university days. Apart from one interlude, he has been living to this day at Poděbradova street....
Kohoutovice (Hotel Myslivna) Koliště (Koliště Street) Komárov Komín Komín, Hlavní (Main street, the Dvořáks’ ) Královo Pole, Palackého třída (Palacký Street) Kraví hora - hvězdárna (observatory) Kraví hora (Cow Hill) Křenová (Křenová Street) Křížová (Křížová Street)
Poet, writer and publicist. Born in Brno, he attended the grammar school at Slovanské náměstí and went on to the medical faculty. He lives and works in Brno, his home patch being Královo Pole. His debut came in 1996 with the collection Studna potopeného srdce (‘The well of the submerged heart’). Since then, a number of other books of poetry and prose have followed. He has also worked as a reviewer. His passion is botany, which comes through in his works; moreover he is an experimental musician (specialising in digital music) and a performer.
Treks on foot with long bus routes interspersed,
in dust of evaporated yards the past shines,
falls lapsing into armfuls of greased thread lines,
a bellied tree-shadow in gently blazing burst.
And, as my guide, comes softly spoken chatter,
the haughty barbs of teasel buffoon disdain.
People on splattered bikes, “stop, wait”, I mutter,
“is your head smart, or just your smarting ass?”
But that, as ever, gets me nowhere, plain.
Beneath the castle were once pearly minds,
now by the dry irrevocably smitten.
The greenhouse ruin suits me best, I find,
my elbow, bare, by nettle-dragon bitten.
From woodland arch moved to the empty fields,
by Krnovec, there by the bladdernut,
a chapel to its crumbling quietly yields.
Hrbáč, Petr: Špička (Cigar holder), Brno: Petrov 2002, p. 31.