Tomaž Šalamun/Michael Thomas Taren: Three Poems

The Boy With a Small Bundle

In rubble, beneath the infinite roosters of bread,

dwelled the boy with a small bundle. She

loved him. On Sundays he went out. And when

he came to the bridge made of tiger’s fur, titmice

were already sleeping. Does anyone live here?

he asked. Does anyone live here? he asked

again. There was no answer. He drank his crumbs

and milk and absorbed himself in thoughts.

Maybe the sun is the son of the devil. Maybe

animals love dough. Maybe in Spain slaves

and grasshoppers who like to race on camels

grow on trees. There’re also people who

die without owning their house. And he

himself licked the tiger’s fur and kept on walking.

And he came to the tower where there were

hens inside. O midges, he said, making a mistake,

how are you? And violet midges and hens

appeared on a mantle. The doorkeeper gave it

to him as a gift. And the boy didn’t sleep

on the cauldron anymore, but on this soft gift.

Translated from the Slovenian by Michael Thomas Taren and the author, Tomaž Šalamun

They All

 “They all love me here, servants

included. I’ll wire you when I

know, Monday morning, after

nine. I’m scared. You stress too

much your s’s. I’ll take this sweat shirt,

your wedding one. I’ll wait for

the next bus. Look, this is San Martin de

Porres, the small black man I was telling you

about. Is my scent nicer than your cat

with white ribbon? I’m not an angel,

I’m a man who wants to experience

that experienced by the one who gave us life.

I’m one of seven children. My father is

three years younger than you. After I leave

you should fall asleep, so your heart doesn’t

betray you and you don’t lose your wife.”

Translated from the Slovenian by Michael Thomas Taren and the author, Tomaž Šalamun

Toof Toof: the Arc

Hungry bird from Samarkand

chews the putrid leaves.

What’s wrong, honey?

Nobody makes you warm?

In Chihahua I’ve seen such a train,

that I carried it on my chest.

And if I roll you into my trunk

and carry you more toward the South,

will you be more of bad repute?

We’ll do like this, birdie.

I’ll put dripping on my salad

and put you into my backpack,

birds cannot travel by train.

There I’ll provide you so many worms

you’ll squint with your eyes.

And then you’ll fly away again

fat and so strong, able

to break the window pane.

Translated from the Slovenian by Michael Thomas Taren and the author, Tomaž Šalamun