Tomaž Šalamun
Tomaž Šalamun Poems
Cats have set themselves on wings.
Buttons have buttercups. Hares are soft meat,
hares are soft meat, they quiver and throng.
...
Leather without history. Strength without
rickets. From a drawer. On the hand a wire. Blood
is silk. Walk silently. Blood is like
...
No one rides on
the crest. No one stops Rembrandt.
Trousers worn down on parmesan.
...
Precious copper mouth.
I hide, hide my head in you.
I have only one white sense.
...
Historical brutality,
you are a poppy.
With a black scepter, silk
wings.
...
The insane devotee throbs with his
small legs, I don't dare more.
The insane devotee throbs with his
small legs, I cannot do more. Bricks are
...
The rise of the zebra hurts the zebra.
As if she would breathe fire.
If we put natural gold and the black blue into
the loaf of bread it bursts.
...
I'm religious.
As religious as the wind or scissors.
It's an ant, she's religious, the flowers are red.
I don't want to die. I don't care if I die now.
...
Three flies, woken by the sun
on a white, illuminated wall,
leap like the hands of a florist wrapping
bouquets. They remind me of a knife
...
To stop the blood of flowers and to reverse harmony.
To die in the river, to die in the river.
To hear the heart of a rat. There is no difference
between the silver of the moon and the silver of my tribe.
...
Quick ostrich. Quick ostrich. Quick sand. Quick sand.
Quick lime. Quick grass. The white juice from celeste Aida,
and forgot-to-take-it dries up. The one
...
All young cops have soft
mild eyes. Their upbringing is lavish.
They walk between blueberries and ferns,
rescuing grannies from rising waters.
...
again the roads are silent, dark peace
again there are bees, honey, silent green fields
willows by the rivers, stones at the bottom of the valleys
hills in the eyes, sleep in the animals
...
I'm the fruit whose skin breaks,
a container grabbed with a crane.
Gulls are bloodthirsty and hungry.
Their plucked feathers descend
...
By the way of all spheres,
on steep rocks overgrown with segments of color,
covered with chalk that children have broken,
we watch fragments
...
Every true poet is a monster.
He destroys people and their speech.
His singing elevates a technique that wipes out
the earth so we are not eaten by worms.
...
Last night, in the water where Barnett Newman's
line disappeared, I drowned. I swam
to the surface, like a black, dark-blue
luminous blossom. It's terrible to be
...
Tomaž Šalamun Biography
Tomaž Šalamun is a leading name of the postwar neo-avant-garde poetry in Central Europe and internationally acclaimed absurdist Slovene poet, whose books have been translated into twenty-one languages, with nine of his thirty-nine books of poetry published in English. He has been called a poetic bridge between old European roots and America. Šalamun is a member of the Slovenian Academy of Sciences and Arts. He lives in Ljubljana, Slovenia, and is married to the painter Metka Krašovec. As members of Slovene minority in Italy (1920-1947), Šalamun’s mother's family joined thousands of Slovenes who left their homes because of the forced Italianization and moved from Italy to Yugoslavia, where he was born in 1941 in Zagreb. His father’s family came from Ptuj, where his grandfather had been a mayor. After his family moved to Koper, the local high school teachers of French language and Slovene language made him interested in language. In 1960, he began to study art history and history at University of Ljubljana. His mother was an art historian, his brother Andraž is an artist, while his two sisters are Jelka a biologist and Katarina a literary historian. He has won a Pushcart Prize, as well as the Slovenia’s Prešeren Fund Award and Jenko Prize. Šalamun and his German translator, Fabjan Hafner, were awarded the European Prize for Poetry by the German city of Muenster. In 2004, he was the recipient of Romania's Ovid Festival Prize.)
The Best Poem Of Tomaž Šalamun
Colombia
Cats have set themselves on wings.
Buttons have buttercups. Hares are soft meat,
hares are soft meat, they quiver and throng.
They rise the sun, actually hold it
on little poles planted in the sand.
Water fortifies the poles in river sand. A pool
vibrates differently from clay. It spills itself
and does not come back rhythmically. The sea
is a guarantee and the nosy are full of adrenaline.
And now? How are you? Is there also a membrane
in the volcano along which the tongue glides?
That which stirs the cells of memory
and undulates the body and screams
when the sun soaks, soaks, roasting in Iška?
Translated by Brian Henry
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4/26/2024 2:46:49 PM # 1.0.0.1119
