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    Justice
    Justice
    Justice
    Ebook134 pages40 minutes

    Justice

    By Tomaz Salamun

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Slovenian poet Tomaž Šalamun (1941-2014) is hailed as one of the most prominent poets of his generation, renowned for his impact on the Eastern European avant-garde movement. He authored over fifty collections of poetry in Slovenian and English, experimenting with surrealism, polyphony, and absurdism. In this collection, which he was preparing before his recent death, he shows his mastery of sound, of uncomfortable twists of expectations, and reveals alleyways into humanity with sharp, minty lines amidst physical chaos and violence. Šalamun has helped shape an era of poetics with his electric imagination, refusal of boxed-in logic and custom, and sophisticated concision. His voice will linger on for years to come in the influence it has left with artists, writers, and readers. For a career born from a violent world, he has left a beautiful Justice behind.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlack Ocean
    Release dateMay 25, 2021
    ISBN9781939568601
    Justice
    Author

    Tomaz Salamun

    Tomaž Šalamun was born in 1941 in Zagreb. He has published over thirty books of poetry and frequently teaches at American universities, including Pittsburgh, Richmond, and Texas.

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      Book preview

      Justice - Tomaz Salamun

      THE WATERFALL

      Not a minute of my life

      was lost.

      Tanks were there

      and altars in paper boxes.

      White grass burned in white flames

      and I was on cocaine.

      There are pithy grapes.

      I stay pinned.

      It rains.

      It rains from your fingers.

      We both rose.

      We both met.

      We both stopped.

      I will flutter.

      I will flutter another time.

      Your knuckles crack.

      I have hair.

      I saw night.

      I was close.

      I was there.

      You have azure rooms.

      There are cars.

      I’m heedless.

      Stop me.

      I stay pinned.

      I divided me and you from me and you.

      I had wings.

      It was heard of.

      They covered me with a carpet.

      I heard drops.

      I swam.

      With my head I touched the page.

      The sea rose.

      The bridge is walked through.

      There are no doormen.

      A SNUFF MOTH

      I was born like a snuff moth.

      The nail went barely below my neck.

      When I was fourteen

      I read Ivo Andrić,

      how the Turks tortured Christians,

      they impaled them

      so by dawn they’ve seen the pole

      coming out of their wound and they died.

      Fates pitied my face,

      on a piece of paper they had written

      for me the story of oysters.

      I went to Istria, to the deep bay.

      I dived and put oysters

      on the nail below my neck.

      I had dived three times,

      the nail melted,

      I poured nectar into my scar,

      and threw the sheet of paper into the sea.

      The last blow to the sheet of paper was

      that the Algerian marine exploded it.

      When I was twenty-nine years old

      I watched a fuck film in New York,

      how they shoved into his rectum a long

      fake dick of a handsome guy who looked

      exactly like my friend in Yugoslavia.

      They turned it round and pushed it like a drill

      until it came out through his mouth.

      He looked happy, then he said

      pretty wiped out. I was totally afraid

      for him and had written him a letter,

      the story about the oysters.

      He went to Istria, to the deep bay.

      He dived and lit his bowels with oysters.

      He had dived three times,

      the film reel disappeared.

      He watered outer walls of his skin with nectar,

      and threw the letter into the sea.

      The last blow to the letter was

      that a yogi who practiced near

      Neretva River’s delta swallowed it.

      HER DREAMS FOR HER BIRTHDAY

      All at once I was in Russia. I don’t know

      with whom, with Travitza or with Harriet,

      we roared with laughter. In Russia, I stepped

      directly from my apartment which had

      streets and giant rooms. There were soldiers

      everywhere. The meat hanged from the

      shack. So they do have meat we said to

      ourselves, but it turned out the meat was only

      for the canteen. We passed them. A certain

      woman came running, she told us her son

      in Moscow filed a request and we should

      see if the request was being processed.

      We promised to do that and proceeded

      through the woods roaring with laughter.

      Hannes drew the shoe and the duck,

      Tamsin drew the lady with the chalk.

      I, five years old, have made

      a book of poems for my mom‘s birthday,

      now owned by Nina Souvan who

      doesn’t want to give it back.

      humor is not for the chosen

      dear guardian angel mine, protect

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