The story
Take a moment to notice the rhythm under your feet. If you are walking uphill, you are feeling the literal rise of Žižkov, a neighborhood that has always been a bit rebellious, a bit rough around the edges, and deeply soulful. You are walking along Seifertova, a street that acts as a grand staircase connecting the glass and steel of the main railway station to the heart of this old workers' district.
This street is named after Jaroslav Seifert, a man whose life mirrored the turbulent history of the twentieth century. He wasn’t a general or a politician. He was a poet—the only Czech writer ever to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. He was born right here in Žižkov in 1901, in a house just a short walk from where you are standing. Back then, this area was a place of soot, taverns, and loud, passionate arguments. Seifert grew up among the working class, and even when he became the nation’s most beloved literary figure, he never lost that local grit.
For a long time, this street didn’t carry his name. During the decades of communist rule, it was called Kalininova, named after a Soviet official. But after the Velvet Revolution in 1989, Prague began to reclaim its own identity. In 1990, the city chose to honor Seifert here, in the neighborhood that shaped his voice. They gave his name to this specific artery because it is the gateway to Žižkov.
Today, Seifertova is defined by the heavy rattle of the red and silver trams that groan as they climb the slope. It is a street of functional beauty. On one side, you might see the floodlights of the Viktoria Žižkov football stadium, a place where the local passion for sport is almost a religion. On the other, the tall, thin windows of apartment blocks hide courtyards that have remained largely unchanged for a century.
Seifert was a poet of the senses. He wrote about the smell of fresh bread, the light on the Vltava River, and the beauty of ordinary women. He was a man who stood up for oppressed writers when it was dangerous to do so, yet his verses remained tender. He once wrote that a poet must always say more than what is simply permitted.
As you continue your walk, look up at the horizon toward the high point of the hill. You will likely see the gray spire of the Church of Saint Procopius or the futuristic needles of the Žižkov Television Tower. Somewhere between those two landmarks—the old faith and the new technology—is the spirit of the man this street honors. Before you reach the next tram stop, try to find a single patch of old cobblestone peeking through the modern pavement. Tap your heel against it and imagine the young poet walking these same steep curves a hundred years ago, looking for a rhyme in the noise of the city.