ESAD BABACIC ~

 

Democracy

Democracy is when your phone rings

and you pick up the receiver

with nobody on the other side.

Democracy is when the entire skyscraper cannot sleep

because of a hungry dog barking beneath the window,

locked in a cage by his owner.

Democracy is when you call

the SPCA

as you can no longer

listen to the desperate dog,

and they tell you

there's nothing they can do —

once the laws are adopted . . .

once it becomes legal . . .

we'll bark too.

Democracy is when somebody

previously poor

remains poor in the future.

The Seeker

Drunk from the bus,

terrorized from thinking.

How does the snow smell?

How do you dream?

The Samurai

I'm pierced through.

With the last year's swallows

still flying through me.

Snow

Believe in snow

and cut yourself up

to make it sting

when it falls.

Russians

Russians never

run away.

It's too far.

~

Born before my mother,

I'd be free

~

Give me your hand,

I've taken your heart.

~

The rhythm sleeps on the tracks.

~

The silence of a hand

having found itself

in another one.

______________________________________   

Esad Babacic

Every Child Is Beautiful When Born

Dalkey Archive, 2021

TOMAZ SALAMUN /JOSHUA BECKMAN ~

 

I'm usually

somehow shy

about reading

my young

poems

because they don't

go with this

body anymore

it was '64

so probably I was twenty-three

or maybe twenty-two

I don't remember

no I started one in '63

so I was twenty-four

or twenty-three

p. 3

_________________

from TOMAZ

Beckman / Salamun

Wave Books, 2021

_________________

• The author of more than forty poetry collections, with more than a dozen in English translation, Slovenian poet Tomaž Šalamun (July 4, 1941–December 27, 2014) is considered to be one of the most prominent poets of the Eastern European avant-garde. He published his first collection, Poker, in 1966 at the age of twenty-five. Early in his career, he edited the literary magazine Perspektive, for which he was briefly jailed on political charges. He later studied Art History at the University of Ljubljana before attending the University of Iowa and then becoming a Fulbright Fellow at Columbia University. After, he was invited to exhibit his work at the Museum of Modern Art in 1970, Šalamun lived for periods of time in the United States, working as the Slovenian Cultural Attaché in the 1990s and later teaching at a number of American universities, including the University of Pittsburgh, the University of Massachusetts, and the University of Alabama. Celebrated through many accolades, he was the recipient of the prestigious Jenko Prize and Slovenia’s Prešeren and Mladost Prizes. Šalamun passed away on December 27, 2014, in Ljubljana. 

  
  

  

  
  

  
  

Tomaž Šalamun ~

 

Maria

I

This is a book

for little girls.

The most

beautiful and perversely soft

book

for little girls' eyes.

Block-chested

stags

sprout from the soil.

They crap

and leave their mess

but I

can't tell

if they were here

or not.

II

I'm a

blueberry.

I'm the sweet black

blueberry

under the pine

in the forest.

I still have time

about two days

before

a little girl

or a shepherd

passes

with a cup

and a rake-comb.

III

I'm a she-mouse

who tumbled

through a long tunnel

onto the soft grass.

With my tiny teeth

I licked

the stovepipe

and with my

tiny claws

scratched through the wall

into the rosy day.

IV

And I stood at the

foot of the

fence

and watched

the cold peacock-butterfly

up above.

Clouds

rushed behind

his wings.

I lay down

head against the

fence,

drank all

the mother's milk

the oil of the earth.

V

And in the

snare jutting

from the corner of the stovepipe

I saw a mousetrap.

Out of a hole in the sky

rain fell.

I hit the mousetrap

with a straw

already rusty

it snatched at the

rowen

at the old grass

that the cattle ignored

to graze.

VI

I placed

on the anvil

a dainty shoe.

I hit it so

hard

sparks flew

when I resoled it.

I gave it no thought

how electricity

appeared

in the dark stovepipe

under the earth

how the shoe

appeared

in my fate.

VII

Then I gave

birth to little ones

through my

butt

and placed them on the

dark bottom

of the stovepipe.

I hewed a playpen

for them on

the shiny grass

stuck flags

in the humus

next to each

wooden leg.

I rested

a hand on my hip.

With the hand on my hip

I looked

up.

VIII

Most likely

flying birds

were

black spots.

I snatched the pacifier

from my son's mouth

that ruined

the angle of my hand

on my hip.

Clasping the pacifier

my hand swung

the span of

five inches.

IX

How is it

possible

to sleep on soft

grass in the sunless

black earth?

Can one see

the light

of the other sky?

I'm a she-mouse

red

the pinkest

among animals

pink paws

pink whiskers

I'm not even a mole.

X

Surround me

my snow-laden

blue-ravaged

leaves.

I'm the

dark red

unprotected

wild strawberry.

Who

caresses me

who

touches me

who will actually

pick me

is not yet clear.

____________________

Druids

Tomaž Šalamun

trans. Sonja Kravanja

Black Ocean, 2018