Four Poems
Mandelstam dixit
Swahili is a cord on which a field poppy walks.
Eggs are fried into straight heaven’s dew.
The spirit – disgusts.
Furled fingers – disgust.
The child’s foot – bells toll,
the lass strikes into civilization.
I wanted to open the room, but couldn’t.
The moss had overgrown it.
A group of sheep and ducks climbed on the number
and hatched the core of the niche there.
The grandmother of living prose.
Yes. I open the umbrella because it rains.
Already I see the clear sky.
I pick the dandelion. In the rain I like it even better.
Translated from the Slovenian by Thomas Kane and the author
How Did I Feel On The Queen Mary?
Verena hit Bolkonski on the mouth,
and dai dai also shut it to him.
Snakes so plivkale
along the technology. Fish deceives the sea.
The sea pulls down. Wallets are foxes,
foxes lie in morgues. Who doesn’t
have new shoes can join. Diminutive
of little fig is a fig. A golden fleece
is a golden fleece. With years mountains
adhere to. Unsmooth it. A house, a toothpick,
a tank? A tarpaulin and a base for a tarpaulin.
Impale a dormouse cap on your head and
along as a ladder, leaned on a wall: legs
(the body) boots (the body) a peg (the body) (a ring (the body))
Translated from the Slovenian by Thomas Kane and the author
On Via Boscovich
The receptionist on Via
Boskovich goes out
every hour
to see if my car is still there.
In the morning I have capuccino
and give a gift to the chambermaid, a lot of
rice. I was treated as
le grand seigneur,
il professore,
he who, far off in the dark countries,
got into trouble,
gentilissimo, educatissimo.
When we all discovered with relief
that I don’t smuggle drugs or weapons
but cheap jewelry which I
stuff into cardboard boxes and
glue back together, we
laughed conspiratorially and
felt better. From this,
pounds and pounds of rice
on every visit for everyone.
Translated from the Slovenian by Joshua Beckman and the author
Porcini
How do you germinate the lamb, the plucked off neck, watered by milk?
Slovenians, with my tongue I touched your children's palm
and pressed their brains like muscat wine. I give you
back your home. If I pluck off their arms, they come after
them. The torso is my fountain of delight. I roll up
shirt sleeves: Perceval. White knouts with silky
edges are at your disposal. Christ's heart has to be
massaged. I grabbed Christ's heart with my fingers.
With the hand I licked by myself. Will the blossom now be
double, Marko? Can you hear the mushrooms grow? I know
you were rooted out, dethreaded, grabbed and milled.
Your heart's sequins goggled. You were blown up.
Wet and moist, you screamed. Your little teeth
gave you a drink. The blueness scrubbed you as with sand.
You plucked out your hair and put it in the herbarium.
Diptheria. Music's swarm. A ram's head covered with
zinc. Little bags. Little pouches that you can hide
below your armpit. The yellow beak of the blackbird itself.
Found as a fossil. To be of use? Did you cut them?
All one hundred and three of them support you. I'm only drawing.
I'm only drawing. The ball which runs on my biceps.
Translated from the Slovenian by Joshua Beckman and the author
Tomaž Šalamun is widely recognized as one of the leading Central European poets and has had books translated into most of the European languages. He lives in Ljubljana, Slovenia and occasionally teaches in the USA. In Spring 2008 he was appointed as Visiting Professor in Creative Writing and Distinguished Writer in Residence by the University of Richmond. His many prizes include European Prize for Poetry by German town Münster in 2007. His recent books translated into English are Poker (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2003), Blackboards (Saturnaliabooks, 2004), The Book For My Brother (Harcourt, 2006), Row (Arc Publications, 2006) and Woods and Chalices (Harcourt, 2008).