Tomaž Šalamun — THREE POEMS

Tomaž Šalamun





Let’s say, through the crenel, little

chains were on arms and


legs too, you don’t hit the whole piece.

Usually some storm interweaves.


Roe deers extend with the glass, they

need it to fight fires. But fern


with shields advances too. Sometimes

yes, sometime no. Sometimes yes


and no. Buttons change their position,

you’re my meatball. And


what do you create? The planet. And

what on the planet? The palm


trees. When you stretch your arms, your

eyelids dry. The rain flashes.










Stables are lined up with wood not

with frescoes. They scold


the horse’s ass. In one cubic centimeter

of a pontoon I put Siberia, a


glowworm and another glowworm.

They all swam. O, if the bee


stings in the mouth! The palate

is sweetened. The cold


pushes the horsehair away. The

victory floats away, beggar


barrel. Ladybirds with furrowed

head protect buttonholes.


The serenity is pastured by the

bloody around his mouth.










The girl with her little coat covers

only one fifth of her services.


Mapa mundi rots. It is much

harder to cut down the


mast than the pine tree. It’s oiled.

And not only because it’s


oiled. The boy is proud. He

touches the keel.


The pine tree touches only the

earth that fodders. And


whispers: whom do I hear, whom

do I hear? It cuts waves and


mutters: to me, please. It wets

the flight with saliva.







Translated from the Slovenian by Michael Thomas Taren and the author