The Book for My Brother Tapa blanda - 2006 - 1st Edición

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
 
 
To the Heart
Raucous black sky, why did you ­swallow
my ­proof?
Who authorized this ­gluttony?
My brothers are ­flowers.
Can you still smell haystacks and lemon ­blossoms?
The body, dipped in water, loses its ­scent.
The Allahs on the beach smoke their ­pipes.
All of us burn our ­eyelashes.
Raucous black sky, did you tally the ­food?
What will you do in this crowd of white ­cherries?
Is there a piton in your gluttonous ­cave?
What kind of papers do you burn under the ­pagoda?
Don’t birds crash into your ­eyebrows?
You, who can’t tell the yolk from the ­white,
where do you put the ­colors?
Do you think I’ll feed you like an ­hourglass
which can be turned upside down, into ­eternity?
I’ll break the horseshoe, we’ll see if ­you
keep ­breathing!
Your gates will burn ­down
below water ­level.
Raucous black sky, my ­intimate!
Display the ­stones.
Crush the eyes of the ­otters
so you can smell and count them ­better.
You’re a ­belt!
No­-­father!
Your procession of clay and silk ­flags
goes mad when they touch one ­another.
Where then is your papier­-­mâché?
Do the stars wound themselves in my ­body?
Have you ever asked them a ­question?
You keep your gods locked up in bowls like ­peasants
in vats stomping ­cabbages.
You’re ­deaf!
I’ve bitten your heel five times ­already.
And it grows back like the beards of ­saints,
because they never ­eat.
The earth is my bonbon, my ­glutton!
The rest of the fruit we’ll divide in ­half.
I’m beating the rug in your mouth, the black ­one,
to make you ­cough!
And I’ll roll my children into the fishbones, bend them ­and
glue them so they straighten up and cut ­your
throat when you click your tongue ­and
dream of warmth, because you drank my ­blood.
Raucous black sky, give me back my ­number!
Do you see those moist curled ­paws?
They’re yours if you agree to the rules of the ­game.

 

Copyright © 2006 by Tomaz Salamun

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PRAISE FOR TOMAŽ ŠALAMUN

"One of the indispensable poets of the era . . . A poet who one feels has a heart so open and an ear so pure, he might have answers in even the darkest times."
-JORIE GRAHAM, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry

"Šalamun's poems manifest a wry, deprecative humor, alternately acerbic and playful; a gift for remarkable images and detail, both surreal and quotidian; and an acute sensitivity to the astounding variety of the world and of history."-BOSTON REVIEW