In Ljubljana I lived in Gradišče.
Even there two children chained my windows with
clay hairs.
Will I ever walk past there?
Will I ever look in on my bay window?
Last time I almost ran down
Marko in a white crosswalk. Why did I burn
the prayers I’d written in
Iowa when Tone was killed? So as not to
hurt Nina?
I’m writing this poem in a hotel in Río
Lerma while Alejandro sleeps.
Nina nana,
for the children of the monogram a stranger.
la lettre de mon père, le pédiatre
June 14. Dear Tomaž,
Thank you for the congratulations. As for the
whirlpool of poetry pulling you
in – as for the group
of your altitude, privileged and
protected – I firmly hope it won’t
explode you. The forces I would have
to muster –
after the explosion –
would be too little
for Metka and consequently also for you.
Today rain soaked the cedar at
Markovec – a drought till now had
damaged it –
and we hadn’t watered it enough.
All best wishes
for you and Metka Yours Dad.
Nota: tu vois!
Sans changer un mot,
Doctor-in-Chief!
J’adore ton appétit!
Alas, I have no time
now to wonder about
your mysterious
mountain excursions and teas
with my wife.
I’m too entangled in my own
carnal business.
Let me congratulate you again.
This time for your
Ribičič Awards.
grain
In America Rose Kennedy goes to mass twice
each morning. Along the way she eats a sandwich
to save money. Three sons, three hero’s medals
jingle on her blue blouse.
The woman even eats through the exaltation of the host.
All other women who don’t eat through the
exaltation drown at
Chappaquidick, or go to hospitals for
electroshock. The third generation of Kennedys
numbers roughly a billion. They’re sweeter than the
sails. He hasn’t yet made up his mind. If America
fails, it will be because Teddy gets
mad at some prankster who breaks his sail’s
frame. Meanwhile, in California my friend
Jerry Brown is sleeping sweetly. No
wonder he’s rested. I make love to him night and day.
And somewhere, in America’s heart, lost
amid the corn, an ordinary farmer says:
I’ve had it with this Boston quasi-elite
and their provincial Catholic bullshit.
To hell with Teddy and his health care
mafia! In green fields and in the
blue sky my most secret flower
opens. That’s also how every young
Slovenian poet should behave,
and if not, then in this century they simply
do not have a chance.
the word and the truth
Whoever heeds the suffering of women is no
genius. Back to Mexico, back to Meeejico!
Who guides my fate, my stallion!
Precise are the time and the place where he
wounds me. Kneel stallion, so I can
kneel, too. Rise up, Other! Mine is just
the technique. Arranging the groomsmen to
carry my saddle from murdered trails.
It’s true. In the end, when the harmonica
plays, the medallion’s beauty will decide.
But the condition is awful. Music! At your
fall I didn’t hear it. Let the farewell be
for you, then, Blind to Color. Whoever ignores
the movement of shadows is wiped out for my freedom.
September 11, 1979
About the Author
Tomaž Šalamun was born in 1941 in Zagreb, Croatia and raised in Koper, Slovenia. He has a degree in Art History from the University of Ljubljana, and before devoting himself to poetry he worked as a conceptual artist. Since the publication in 1966 of his first book, Poker, he has published more than forty collections of poetry in Slovenian and English, and was recognized as one of the leading poets in Europe. His honors include the Prešeren Fund Prize, the Jenko Prize, a Pushcart Prize, a visiting Fulbright to Columbia University, and a fellowship to the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. He has also served as Cultural Attaché to the Slovenian Consulate in New York.
In addition to his work appearing in numerous journals and anthologies in more than twenty languages, he has had many collections published in English: The Selected Poems of Tomaž Šalamun (Ecco Press, 1998); The Shepherd, the Hunter (Pedernal, 1992); The Four Questions of Melancholy (White Pine Press, 1997); Feast (Harcourt, 2000); A Ballad for Metka Krašovec (Twisted Spoon Press, 2001); Poker (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2008); Row! (Arc Publications, 2006); The Book for My Brother (Harcourt); Woods and Chalices (Harcourt, 2008); There’s the Hand and There’s the Arid Chair (Counterpath, 2009); On the Tracks of Wild Game (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2012).
A member of the Slovenian Academy of Science and Art, Šalamun lived in Ljubljana with his wife, the painter Metka Krašovec, until his death on December 27, 2014.
About the Translator
Michael Biggins is Affiliate Professor in Slavic Languages & Literatures at the University of Washington. His translations from Slovene include: the novels Northern Lights, Mocking Desire, and The Galley Slave by Drago Jančar; The Errors of Young Tjaž by Florjan Lipuš; Pilgrim Among the Shadows and Necopolis by Boris Pahor; The Blue Tower by Tomaž Šalamun.
Colophon
A Ballad for Metka Krašovec was is translated by Michael Biggins from the original Slovene Balada za Metko Krašovec (Ljubljana: Državna založba Slovenije, 1981).
Photo on front cover and frontispiece appear courtesy of the author.
Designed by Silk Mountain Publishing Services.
First published in English in 2001 by Twisted Spoon Press
P.O. Box 21 – Preslova 12, 150 21 Prague 5, Czech Republic
www.twistedspoon.com
Acknowledgments
Some poems have appeared previously in The Four Questions of Melancholy (Fredonia: White Pine Press, 1997) and in the following journals: Denver Quarterly, Poetry Miscellany, and Willow Springs.
“When I crawl ...” appears in Feast, edited by Charles Simic (New York: Harcourt Brace, 2000).
The author wishes to express his heartfelt gratitude to Yaddo.
The publisher would like to thank Aleš Šteger for making this project possible.
Publication of this book has been made possible in part by a grant from the Trubar Foundation at the Association of Slovenian Writers, Ljubljana, Slovenia.