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TOMAZ SALAMUN OF SLOVENIA
Poems by Tomaz Salamun
Tomaz Salamun (Photo by Fred Johnston)
Read three poems by Tomaz Salamun below.
1. Ship of Fools
The traveler par excellence,
locked up in a starry Narrenschiff,
I see animals in the mouths of the flight attendants,
refined faces in dogs' muzzles.
The masters of this earth grown weary,
the earth itself exhausted.
The lowing of sacred cows
burns bright in layers of fragrant wood.
It rises and falls to the pine scent of forests,
it rises and falls to the scent of the sea.
2. History
Tomaz Salamun is a monster.
Tomaz Salamun is a sphere
rushing through the air.
He lies down in twilight, he swims in twilight.
People and I, we both look at him amazed,
we wish him well, maybe he is a comet.
Maybe he is punishment from the gods,
the boundary stone of the world.
Maybe he is such a speck in the universe
that he will give energy to the planet
when oil, steel, and food run short.
He might only be a hump, his head
should be taken off like a spider's.
But something would then suck up
Tomaz Salamun, possibly the head.
Possibly he should be pressed between
glass, his photo should be taken.
He should be put in formaldehyde, so children
would look at him as they do at fetuses,
protei, and mermaids.
Next year, he'll probably be in Hawaii
or in Ljubljana. Doorkeepers will scalp
tickets. People walk barefoot
to the university there. The waves can be
a hundred feet high. The city is fantastic,
shot through with people on the make,
the wind is mild.
But in Ljubljana people say: look!
This is Tomaz Salamun, he went to the store
with his wife Marushka to buy some milk.
He will drink it and this is history.
3. To Have a Friend
I see the devil's head, people,
I see his whole body
I never thought he could come so close
he longs for innocence, as we do,
I have the sensation
he was crammed into the wall for a long time
I have the feeling that his hands ache,
that he is tender and absorbed in thoughts,
he licks everything before killing it,
he bursts into tears, scraping meat, he is blessed
he has no friends, he is walking alone in the world
I have the feeling he is saying something to me
that he is watching me with regret
he knows I could never sleep with him
we are both humiliated
he reminds me of the English teacher
when he was pensioned off,
and young secret police recruits,
it seems his beatitude is failing
the souls squeal when he tortures them
he doesn't drink them, as I imagined
it seems he derives no benefit from them
I think he would like to have a friend
to share goods and pleasure
he steps in the river and wets his head in it
he doesn't know how to speak with it
he splashes on the surface
I will leave him as he is, I will not talk to him
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