Marais
I dreamed that Martinique was reheeled with water.
La bouche, la bouche, André kept repeating, when
Andraž and I lived in Sing Sing. Did I chase him
because his name was so close? I told him
how I'd endured Senghor, that boats came floating from heaven,
falling on Lake Ohrid like fairy flies, that we
danced with our nephews, great-nieces and bodyguards,
all the ones that were here to keep them from staging a coup over there. His locals lured me to a monastery. Okudzhava wore black
shoes. I was the sweet party elite, sweeter than your
mouth. Palms flutter in Senegal. The priests wear cassocks.
And once, as I walked back from the Saint Paul metro station, after
Semolič and I had been drinking at Georges, I was picked up
by the same guy who had caught me at the words la bouche, la bouche.
Pharaohs and Kings, Kassel, Paris
We had pretty girls and were excellent dancers,
Andro and I. The dual number is disappearing. We slid
over Karst mountains and drove to the sea. Do you remember
Cabiria? The skirts were long and people stared.
Everywhere people made way for you. But in Paris
at your Biennale des jeunes, it was me who prowled the night.
It's nice when young people cry with pleasure and you float and
listen to their sobbing. Robert became gay in the
sacristy, when a bear pounced on him. I reminded him
of that holy man. And who counts the souls that are
grateful to him? Tomaž Brejc said, what have you
been up to, you're so refreshed, and we're all run down and
tired. It's true. I should have stood by Andraž back then
and trimmed his wings. Brothers can't sleep with each other.
Grischa's Fez
To chop up cotton and read through a cookbook.
To be running behind and hang from your lower jaw.
I'm free to drink bottoms up. Ganymede
gets stuck in a summerhouse. And oh how flowers grew by the
pathways. Do you see how I lopped off their heads?
Do you see how I step on his scalp as an officer?
They poured streams of hot water on me to harden my
mustache. They peeled the enamel off Cassandra's tooth.
By god, she marches over purple plums. She salutes and
keeps marching on the purple plums. A washed pot, if
you shine a deer in it, vomits craquellures back in your
mouth and eyes. King of the news, hitch up your sleigh, trample
the taffeta and yarrow. There are petals in the cups. They
beckon to a feast of the moon. Elongated horses are
the hairstyle around the moon. Giants fight over cards.
The giants rake leaves. The rakes may go, the sand remains,
the rakes may go, the earth remains. Bang! goes a rake handle,
and hits a giant in the head, because somebody stepped on the
rake tines. Doves are the tiles between cathedrals. Woodsmen
bend down, get up, bend down, the town hall is split on its
peak. A peacock takes pity on a lake. Replace
tooth with fake gemstone, woodsman with wooden
boat. Mists rampage in the comics. The horse is fond
of white. A beggar banging with a stick on the edge of
a bell has sand and rain pouring from his hat.
Gums are a cozy nest. Draw little jugs out of the clay. The Turks
made off with Srebrna while she drank at a well.
So We Don't Lose Our Virginity
Clay of silent diasporas, is water yellow
when the oar hits it flat? Where does
all the wool on the cliffs come from? Does the moon
send a compass? The color of feathers, of fur,
of skin and the heart's rumbling under volcanoes
all depend on the place where its point is
set in. The court imitates of the river. Terry
had a sixty-foot-long tapeworm inside her.
That time the court won. We cut the tapeworm to pieces.
The pumpkin, the vessel, or more coarsely put, the body
was put together like a babushka—one cell
inside the other. The points of the seams smelled like
lemon. Then a hand began to stroke
the nipple. And side passages were opened
for the cavalries underground. That's how
we discovered the field of torches, which
began mating with sagas. There was no more Captain
Bada. Suddenly we had the word
anitra. The innocents made themselves a necklace.
And so we lived. Once again the cooking
was done by Cassandras, lovely
apelike monsters from the Carpathians. A horse
kissed me in vitro. Giudita offers me
her neck. I've stopped making eights with my bike.
Sounds Near Pistoletto
The baker sang to them for four hours, ordered
catering and all those excellent wines, until he finally
dared to ask her about the scent that
Grischa used. I'm leaving for Cuba, because
I like the fellows there. Panini, panini, hills,
I've never gotten close enough to see
the mosquitoes in the valley. Scrub and wood
were burning, I carried the hashish under my gums,
the dog won't smell you if I lick you all over.
Rinta, dove’s rinta, when will you return
to your forests in Haiti? I saw you, and more than
once, the last time with Suzy. She isn't bashful.
I'm bashful. Suzy and John practically
belch on the same street. They're both bashful.
They've never met. I tell Zadie, you won't
believe, I'm holding a piece of paper
where Čander mentions you. The first time I heard
of you was when Beatrice introduced us.
Diran doesn't like her. They compete like two
mice. Diran is dancing to Fat Joe again.
Marie-Christine was jailed in Saint Louis.
Fortunately they didn't stamp that in her
passport. At first I worked with young people, they're not
easy to put up with, her I met a long time ago, now I'm
a producer for Zefirrelli. Our forests on Haiti
are being cut down. I don't go there, it's dangerous, I'm an
only daughter, my mother described all of that in the
New York Times in August.
You don't know my mother and you say you saw
me. The two of us have been together for a whole
eternity. Paul is having Terry over, why don't you
come too. When I parked beneath that wall—out of 40,000
cars three go over every day, on average—
my car wasn't hit, my car got hit by a
kangaroo that was instantly killed. Me too,
man, when I finally smuggled the hash under my
gums (in Singapore they hang you, that made it m
ore exciting) and got it nice and ready before
breakfast, I always use it to celebrate when
I get to someplace new and I add the country's name
for the benefit of Philistines, since even Philistines
are part of democracy and etiquette. Only the prince-bishop
commands where to sow cabbage. Bodies jutting out,
bugs rasping, water running short and the pen is
black. Nature is beaten down into a concave gloss.
Because my father didn't lash any Jews, I'm
protected. Whiteness from a dark cup. Coffee
from a quiet street. Frescoes have a smell. The head
is Sirah's body. For three centuries we've been living
off matches. I chain a kleptomaniac to a
pear. The chain can't slip off, because the
pear gets fat toward the bottom. I invented a pane
with three cantons and used a periscope like Živko.
I'll bet not just the picture from Marezige, I’ll bet
you even have my Lujo statue in your cellar. What will you do
when the hunter's horn starts poking its way through your
soul? What will you do when you find out Snežnik isn't
yours anymore? What will you do when you encounter a bear,
grumbling, looking around for a pair of slippers. Take them off
so they don't give you blisters. Lower your periscope.
And the canoe, the falls, the kayak, all those rubber deals,
so you bounce gently, pull in your knees, pull
in your knees, Živko! of course I'll shove into your
Postojna Cave through a quiver. Putin learned from me
to poison before a hand even touches the trigger.
Diran doesn't have his black belt and I'm not even
forbidden to say his name. I prize human
beings. In the clay they're loveable creatures. In Venice
I fell in love twice: with a fifteen-year-old girl in a
fur, on the Ponte dell'Academia, and with a
seventeen-year-old boy who constantly
put on and took off his sweater in front of me at the Bacon
retrospective. All the attainable ones, wings of a dove,
I've brought along with me. Dunk the
veil. Made out of fox lairs, sleeps
blissful dreams. The horse climbs up on four
legs. I leave my driver. I leave my bike.
The joints pale and go rusty. Honor beats the bags.
Diran Adebayo
Crete is valvoline. When the pony shuffled off.
I lie on a carpet. A German shepherd is a tulip.
Diran! A flower blooms for itself. You don't remind me
of him, you remind me of yourself. For Peru you point to a
bow for cricket and you pump, and pump, and rise. I am your
African lumpul. Diran! The earth has been trampled
here. Then Beatrice arrived. The sheep died
off. Their masters crawl into
dreams. Schloendorf has left. I’ve done my homework,
that vent, and now Laure, Peru and Juan
are the hosts here. Peru calls us outside to look at
the moon. Bella morena bianca. Enough to enrapture
the Nubians. A window, a traveler, a sail that drinks
up flashes. Kisses of light through the leaves of the trees, where
two birds are billing. A sweater lies dead across
the chain near the left headboard, that's wrong, near the white sheet,
that's right. Can you hear the birds sing, Diran?,
you know that I've forgotten you. Hunters carry rifles
and stand up. Winter's coming. The rails will ice over
and those complaining now in their dreams—even
sheep trampled them—dissolve with a wave of a hand.
Tomaž Šalamun lives in Ljubljana, Slovenia. He is currently teaching spring semester 2011 at Michener Center for Writers at The University of Texas. His recent books translated into English are Woods and Chalices (Harcourt 2008), Poker (Ugly Duckling Presse, second edition 2008) and There's the Hand and There's the Arid Chair (Counterpath Press, 2009). His Blue Tower is due from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt in Fall 2011.
Michael Biggins's book-length translations of works by Slovene poet Tomaž Šalamun and novelist Vladimir Bartol, Drago Jančar and Boris Pahor have been published by Harcourt, Northewestern University Press and others. He curates the Slavic and East European library collections and teaches Slavic languages, both at the University of Washington in Seattle.