By Tomaž Šalamun
To learn Tomaž Šalamun is to appreciate the delights of latest poetry. he's one of many significant names within the overseas avant-garde. Irreverent, self-mythologizing, tragic, and visionary, he's a poet of sizeable variety and crafty, in a position to surround every little thing from Balkan wars and politics to the main intimate own stories. banquet, his most up-to-date assortment in English, brings jointly either early and newer paintings. "Realism, surrealism, music. Aphorisms, lyric, anti-lyric," as Jorie Graham wrote, are all to be present in those poems. here's the main blasphemous of poets who's additionally a good non secular poet.
"Throw open a window, pull up a chair, and revel in the creative feast" (Edward Hirsch).
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Additional info for Feast
Today the power lines genuflect like the reverent, like someone doing cardio, like light coming down to the river to drink. Our violence tethered at our wrists like some weird bird, we bend our heads to drink from the ladle of our hands. 25 Seed Vault Day comes in with a dungeon, out with a coo and a turgid moon. A woman, enterable, seems like stopgap for sorrow, sure, and yet I live alone, such blessings, the between a bleating offering its throat. Fluttering things have so distinct a shade! Glory the world unmade, glory the angel of silence, our S & M togetherness, our still life with bondage.
The city rusts. Regina, the ears of your coat are burning, my gems are thrifted, I have very little power but hum regally. Why do you hum. I hum 36 because air’s ermine. House made of hands. Click stitched from hummingbird skulls. Shoes of small boats. Aftershock like vertebrae’s collapse. Bracelet of throats like smokestacks loving you with their bloomand-choke. And in your coat I saw my fear: of lakes, of snow, of the furs of animals, ash a pure contagion, body in the lungs, of crosswalks, of trees’ fleet human shadows, of ablutophobia, of bays, how they enter or, of the exited body, always the exited body, of the eyes of animals, have you seen the eyes of animals, of pill dust, of barometer’s relentless pressure, 37 of day, comes another, of the locketslight bones of birds, of what the locket holds (ash?
I don’t climb up. I sleep on the floor, thumb through the story of the woman who disappeared. There is no sense in fear of furniture. Even in my shaking, love. Downstairs: tin cabinets, chicken pot pie. We cannot save anyone. At night, sleep coming, my big eye peers into the house like so.