The Book For My Brother: Exuberant Poems of Innocence, Desire, and Memory - Softcover

Salamun, Tomaz

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0156032058 ISBN 13: 9780156032056

Publisher: Ecco, 2006

Synopsis

This newest collection of poems from Tomaž Šalamun is exuberant, ambitious, and full of surprises. Here the devil is encountered and understood-

I see the devil's head, people, I see his whole body . . .

he longs for innocence, as we do.

Here the poet juggles many tones, languages, and countries. Desire is evoked as both frustrating and exhilarating-

I'm watered by longing, knocking my

head into the wall, on the ground, or I burn, burn,

folded up on the couch.

And memory comes back to remind us of the laws and experiences of childhood-

Once again you are let loose in the sea

only after five o'clock in the afternoon to take

a dose of sunlight like the ticking of the clock.

At once daring and clear-voiced, The Book for My Brother is an extraordinary achievement.

What emerges when a master poet holds desire, memory, and innocence up to a surreal, unwavering light?

• Avant-Garde Vision: A singular voice that juggles languages and landscapes, from the banks of the Nile to the streets of New York, creating a vibrant, borderless world.
• The Sacred and Profane: Confrontations with devils, saints, and childhood ghosts where innocence and experience are held in a beautiful, startling tension.
• Poems of Raw Desire: An unflinching exploration of longing—sometimes a fire on the couch, sometimes a knock against the wall—that is both frustrating and exhilarating.
• Masterful Translation: Experience the power and playfulness of one of Slovenia’s most celebrated poets, brought to life in a vivid and clear-voiced English translation.

About this title

About the Author

Tomaž Šalamun was born in 1941 in Zagreb. He has published over thirty books of poetry and frequently teaches at American universities, including Pittsburgh, Richmond, and Texas.

From the Back Cover

This newest collection of poems from Tomaz Salamun is exuberant, ambitious and full of surprises. Here the devil is encountered and understood?"I see the devil’s head, people, I see his whole body?he longs for innocence, as we do"; here the poet juggles many tones, languages and countries; desire is evoked as both frustrating and exhilarating?"I’m watered by longing, knocking my/ head into the wall, on the ground, or I burn, burn,/ folded up on the couch"; and memory comes back to remind us of all the laws and experiences of childhood: "Once again you are let loose in the sea/ only after five o’clock in the afternoon to take/ a dose of sunlight like the ticking of the clock." At once daring and clear-voiced, The Book for My Brother is an extraordinary achievement.

 

Bio: Tomaz Salamun has published more than thirty books of poetry. His work has been translated into almost every European language. He lives in Ljubljana, Slovenia.

Praise:

"One of the indispensable poets of the era...A poet whom one feels has a heart so open and an ear so pure, he might have answers in even the darkest times." --Jorie Graham

"The most celebrated Slovenian poet of his generation..his 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

Reviews

Though he lives in Ljubljana and writes in Slovenian, Salamun has seriously influenced American writing through earlier translations and through time spent here. Salamun's fifth compilation in English shows his familiar strengths: one- and two-page odes and exclamations that shift easily between an anything-goes postsurrealist whimsy and a gloomier attention to recent history. Like Charles Simic, Salamun sets poems in tumbled-down villages, in the aftermath of mysterious wars, sometimes writing for and about vulnerable boys and girls, sometimes casting himself as the spirit of a place: "Slovenians, with my tongue I touched your children's palm/ and pressed their brains like muscat wine. I give you// back your home." Although it has 10 different translators (including the author himself), this collection makes as good an introduction as any to an eminent, still-wild spirit of Central Europe. (Apr.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

\xb3 alamun is simultaneously an acrobatic poet of the avant-garde, a circus clown juggling words and images, and a sardonically insightful Shakespearean fool. Author of more than 30 books of poetry, this Slovenian poet's whimsical and wry style befriends and befuddles readers. In this collection, he jumps from the semiprofound to the seemingly trivial and back by juxtaposing meaning-laden thoughts and images such as "I need to be a tree . . . / I need to meet an angel" that push some of his poems to the edge of incomprehensibility. What often saves readers from falling into \xb3 alamun's surrealistic abyss is his masterful handling of stanza and line breaks, which creates some semblance of order. \xb3 alamun is not for the highly literal or poetically conventional. Such readers may not have the patience to decipher "here it smells of the Zodiac" or determine the sincerity of "The writing / of poetry is / the most / serious / deed in the / world." But the risk-taking reader will revel in \xb3 alamun's exuberant style and gladly follow the labyrinthine paths of his poetic mind. Janet St. John
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

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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Edition details

• Publisher: Ecco
• Publication date: 2006
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0156032058
• ISBN 13: 9780156032056
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 108