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The Blue Tower
The work of this "eminent, still-wild spirit of Central Europe" (Publishers Weekly) continues to electrify. In The Blue Tower, language is remade with tenderness and "Rommel was kissing heaven's dainty hands and yet / from his airplane above the Sahara my uncle / Rafko Perhauc still blew him to bits." There is an effervescence and a sense of freedom to Tomaz Salamun's poetry that has made him an inspiration to successive generations of American poets, "a poetic bridge between old European roots and the American adventure" (Associated Press). Trivial and monumental, beautiful and grotesque, healing, ferocious, The Blue Tower is an essential volume.
- GenresPoetry
96 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2011
1 person is currently reading
56 people want to read
About the author
Tomaž Šalamun
115 books59 followersTomaž Šalamun was a Slovenian poet, who has had books translated into most of the European languages. He lived in Ljubljana and occasionally teaches in the USA. His recent books in English are The Book for My Brother, Row, and Woods and Chalices.
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
June 15, 2021
I flower into shoulders.
Toss the snowball of a horse into windberries.
Mildew. Chrysalis. A leg mouse scratches the slats.
Disappears and steps onto the deck of a typical boat.
Undoes the slats. Undoes the straps. Sunbathes its leg.
Watches the water splash and subathes.
Like a worm that gives its body away before it arrives —
where will he give it, at what points slice it up —
like a worm that gnaws, soaks up and hears cymbals.
Is that what a tail's for?
Do dolphins come and lead?
Do they bring wetness?
Which, finally, flatly, bent over at ninety degrees,
waves in the snow before it departs.
Read
March 12, 2025Šalamun, szarlatan, szaleniec, Chalamet — jak go czytać?
w świecie poezji nasyconym mniej lub bardziej udanym postlogicznym pierdoleniem trudno uważać giganta za giganta — pierwsza reakcja na jego teksty to irytacja, druga prawdopodobnie też, a dopiero trzecia przynosi chwilę zastanawienia: dlaczego wciąż o nim myślę?
Šalamun robi kilka rzeczy, które pokazują, że zna się na swoim fachu; dostrzeżemy je w odpowiednich warunkach; przygotujmy zatem laboratorium według następujących kryteriów:
1. wierszy nie możemy czytać jako spójnych obrazów, scen, dyskursywnych fragmentów; wyobraźmy je sobie jako zbiór zdjęć, album pełen fotografii wykonanych metodą wielokrotnej ekspozycji; jedna klisza nasiąka kilkoma przedstawieniami, które zazębiają się ze sobą i tworzą potworne hybrydy; jeśli rozważymy każde zdanie jako osobną fotografię, zobaczymy, z jaką precyzją Šalamun konstruuje surrealistyczne wycinki (nie)rzeczywistości
(używam słowa "surrealistyczne" z wahaniem; poeta nie eksploruje podświadomych tekstotwórczych procesów; brakuje mu drugiego dna; nie posługuje się strumieniem świadomości — przeciwnie, świadomość podmiotu lirycznego porusza się z mechanicznymi zgrzytami i potyka na każdym kroku)
2. zwróćmy uwagę na oszczędność opisu; przymiotniki pojawiają się sporadycznie; dominują proste, niezłożone, deklaratywne zdania; obrazy zyskują na tym ostrość; nawet jeśli ich nie rozumiemy (czy w ogóle musimy rozumieć?), z łatwością możemy wyobrazić sobie liczenie tygrysów zębom czy futerka w deskorolkach
3. Šalamun pisze dziennik — dziennik podróżniczy, dziennik spotkań, skleja popękane lustro; patrząc na sceny jako przekrzywione esencje przeżytych wydarzeń, możemy zobaczyć łączące je nici; widzimy czyjeś życie z boku, w odbiciach w szybach, w skrawkach głosów na ulicach, w zderzeniach nachodzących na siebie obrazów
4. wiersze mają wywołać określony afekt; możemy mnożyć odniesienia: nasuwa się teatr okrucieństwa Artauda, abulafijskie przekształcenia boskich imion, koany zen, religijne rozszczelnienie logiczno-dyskursywnej myśli; czy afekt wywołują, czy nie (patrz: saturacja współczesnej poezji asemiotycznością), to osobna kwestia; ja, czytając wiersze z tego tomu, przede wszystkim bawiłem się dobrze; widziałem w nich ćwiczenie na wyobraźnię; umiejętne kreowanie bezsensu sprawiło, że Šalamun poza komentarzem o możliwościach języka stworzył także dobrą rozrywkę
słoweńcy podobno go nienawidzą, amerykanie kochają; jeśli chodzi o mnie, daleko mi do starania się o słoweńskie obywatelstwo i nie składam wniosku o wizę do USA — ale uważam Šalamuna za niesamowicie inspirującą warsztatowo postać, więc to na pewno nie nasze ostatnie spotkanie
polecam jako lekcję precyzji w absurdzie
w świecie poezji nasyconym mniej lub bardziej udanym postlogicznym pierdoleniem trudno uważać giganta za giganta — pierwsza reakcja na jego teksty to irytacja, druga prawdopodobnie też, a dopiero trzecia przynosi chwilę zastanawienia: dlaczego wciąż o nim myślę?
Šalamun robi kilka rzeczy, które pokazują, że zna się na swoim fachu; dostrzeżemy je w odpowiednich warunkach; przygotujmy zatem laboratorium według następujących kryteriów:
1. wierszy nie możemy czytać jako spójnych obrazów, scen, dyskursywnych fragmentów; wyobraźmy je sobie jako zbiór zdjęć, album pełen fotografii wykonanych metodą wielokrotnej ekspozycji; jedna klisza nasiąka kilkoma przedstawieniami, które zazębiają się ze sobą i tworzą potworne hybrydy; jeśli rozważymy każde zdanie jako osobną fotografię, zobaczymy, z jaką precyzją Šalamun konstruuje surrealistyczne wycinki (nie)rzeczywistości
(używam słowa "surrealistyczne" z wahaniem; poeta nie eksploruje podświadomych tekstotwórczych procesów; brakuje mu drugiego dna; nie posługuje się strumieniem świadomości — przeciwnie, świadomość podmiotu lirycznego porusza się z mechanicznymi zgrzytami i potyka na każdym kroku)
2. zwróćmy uwagę na oszczędność opisu; przymiotniki pojawiają się sporadycznie; dominują proste, niezłożone, deklaratywne zdania; obrazy zyskują na tym ostrość; nawet jeśli ich nie rozumiemy (czy w ogóle musimy rozumieć?), z łatwością możemy wyobrazić sobie liczenie tygrysów zębom czy futerka w deskorolkach
3. Šalamun pisze dziennik — dziennik podróżniczy, dziennik spotkań, skleja popękane lustro; patrząc na sceny jako przekrzywione esencje przeżytych wydarzeń, możemy zobaczyć łączące je nici; widzimy czyjeś życie z boku, w odbiciach w szybach, w skrawkach głosów na ulicach, w zderzeniach nachodzących na siebie obrazów
4. wiersze mają wywołać określony afekt; możemy mnożyć odniesienia: nasuwa się teatr okrucieństwa Artauda, abulafijskie przekształcenia boskich imion, koany zen, religijne rozszczelnienie logiczno-dyskursywnej myśli; czy afekt wywołują, czy nie (patrz: saturacja współczesnej poezji asemiotycznością), to osobna kwestia; ja, czytając wiersze z tego tomu, przede wszystkim bawiłem się dobrze; widziałem w nich ćwiczenie na wyobraźnię; umiejętne kreowanie bezsensu sprawiło, że Šalamun poza komentarzem o możliwościach języka stworzył także dobrą rozrywkę
słoweńcy podobno go nienawidzą, amerykanie kochają; jeśli chodzi o mnie, daleko mi do starania się o słoweńskie obywatelstwo i nie składam wniosku o wizę do USA — ale uważam Šalamuna za niesamowicie inspirującą warsztatowo postać, więc to na pewno nie nasze ostatnie spotkanie
polecam jako lekcję precyzji w absurdzie
April 16, 2024
nie, nie, nie i jeszcze raz nie
April 27, 2012
Tomaž Šalamun, The Blue Tower (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2011)
Full disclosure: this book was provided to me free of charge by Amazon Vine.
There are a lot of people who—for lack of a more tactful way to put it—simply Just. Don't. Get it. where poetry is concerned. Unfortunately, judging by the other Vine rewviews extant as I write this, all too many of them requested The Blue Tower, the latest volume by Slovenian poet Tomaž Šalamun, for review. The Blue Tower is a nice, quiet, unassuming title that doesn't tell you much. Would it have helped if someone had mentioned that his previous volume is titled There's the Hand and There's the Arid Chair? It's a title that's much more expressive of Mr. Šalamun's brand of poetry. Sure, you can look at it seven ways to Sunday and try and figure out what the hand means and what the chair means and above all why the chair is arid, and you may even come up with something. But if you're one of those people who reads a poem and whose first thought is “what does this mean?”, sue the teacher(s) who taught you poetry. They screwed up. The only valid first question to ask after reading a poem is “how does it sound?”. And suddenly “arid chair” makes perfect sense.
And from the point of view of simply sounding good, The Blue Tower is a little marvel—all the more so because it's translated, which often takes gorgeous-sounding work and makes it pretty much unbearable to read. (I don't know how many awful translations of Apollinaire I've come across over the years; I am eternally grateful Michael Hamburger's were the first I read, or I'd have probably ended up hating Apollinaire.) Translator Michael Biggins seems to be doing his level best to keep his translation in the spirit of Šalamun's words, and the English plays and bounces and patters like rain.
“...Pythagoras is plunder. A cat licks
his ears all summer and winter. Pins directed
the bloodflow of saints. Stones erode
on the shoals. I shove Diran's head away from
the table. This clump is a tombolo. And that
pigeon on the plate. Mother of pearl. Gray head.”
(--”Honey and Holofernes”)
Image after image after image after image and if there is any tie between any of them, it's put there by baggage the reader brings to the table. (The poet, in this model of thinking, which was put forward by one of the surrealists—I think Prévert, but don't quote me on that—is nothing more than another reader, albeit of his own work.) This is far from original thinking, but the lack of any sort of essential meaning a teacher can point to and tell students to study means this stuff is likely to get as much coverage in universities as, say, René Char. (In other words, nil.) What is also means is that as long as you're willing to suspend your search for meaning and just hop along for the ride, it's absolutely blissful stuff, dada in one of its most beautiful incarnations since Picabia, and that when you do find those juxtapositions where two of Šalamun's images spark a third in your mind, the poetry becomes intensely, deeply personal, but on your level rather than the poet's. This is fantastic stuff indeed, and it saddens me that so few understand how to get at the true meat of it. **** ½
Full disclosure: this book was provided to me free of charge by Amazon Vine.
There are a lot of people who—for lack of a more tactful way to put it—simply Just. Don't. Get it. where poetry is concerned. Unfortunately, judging by the other Vine rewviews extant as I write this, all too many of them requested The Blue Tower, the latest volume by Slovenian poet Tomaž Šalamun, for review. The Blue Tower is a nice, quiet, unassuming title that doesn't tell you much. Would it have helped if someone had mentioned that his previous volume is titled There's the Hand and There's the Arid Chair? It's a title that's much more expressive of Mr. Šalamun's brand of poetry. Sure, you can look at it seven ways to Sunday and try and figure out what the hand means and what the chair means and above all why the chair is arid, and you may even come up with something. But if you're one of those people who reads a poem and whose first thought is “what does this mean?”, sue the teacher(s) who taught you poetry. They screwed up. The only valid first question to ask after reading a poem is “how does it sound?”. And suddenly “arid chair” makes perfect sense.
And from the point of view of simply sounding good, The Blue Tower is a little marvel—all the more so because it's translated, which often takes gorgeous-sounding work and makes it pretty much unbearable to read. (I don't know how many awful translations of Apollinaire I've come across over the years; I am eternally grateful Michael Hamburger's were the first I read, or I'd have probably ended up hating Apollinaire.) Translator Michael Biggins seems to be doing his level best to keep his translation in the spirit of Šalamun's words, and the English plays and bounces and patters like rain.
“...Pythagoras is plunder. A cat licks
his ears all summer and winter. Pins directed
the bloodflow of saints. Stones erode
on the shoals. I shove Diran's head away from
the table. This clump is a tombolo. And that
pigeon on the plate. Mother of pearl. Gray head.”
(--”Honey and Holofernes”)
Image after image after image after image and if there is any tie between any of them, it's put there by baggage the reader brings to the table. (The poet, in this model of thinking, which was put forward by one of the surrealists—I think Prévert, but don't quote me on that—is nothing more than another reader, albeit of his own work.) This is far from original thinking, but the lack of any sort of essential meaning a teacher can point to and tell students to study means this stuff is likely to get as much coverage in universities as, say, René Char. (In other words, nil.) What is also means is that as long as you're willing to suspend your search for meaning and just hop along for the ride, it's absolutely blissful stuff, dada in one of its most beautiful incarnations since Picabia, and that when you do find those juxtapositions where two of Šalamun's images spark a third in your mind, the poetry becomes intensely, deeply personal, but on your level rather than the poet's. This is fantastic stuff indeed, and it saddens me that so few understand how to get at the true meat of it. **** ½
November 27, 2011
I gave this book five stars because it's been a wonderful chore reading something that I don't get it - not by a long shot. It is, in fact, incomprehensible. Not that I don't understand the words - they are in english, not that I don't understand whole sentences, and even find some of them beautiful and moving; I just don't understand what any of the poems is supposed to be about, except, perhaps, the futility of any poem being about any thing. I've tried. I went back into Mr. Salumun's past work, and found poems I understood. Found one poem, The Shepherd, to be quite beautiful; beautiful and scary. And I've discovered that Mr. Salumun has some highly prestigious fans, so they must understand what I don't. The back cover of the book contains the sentence: In The Blue Tower, language is remade with tenderness and abandon. I'm not sure I know what that means, either, but I took it as a sort of clue.
The collection has a cast of characters that repeat through the 55 poems, and the poems do seem to track a life, but... As an experiment I took the third line of the first ten poems and constructed a new poem - it seemed to make as much total sense as any of the other poems in the book. And then I thought I found the key in the 47th poem in the collection, and oddly enough, a poem in which I could suss out a disjointed sort of meaning. The key was this quote: "Art is a present the only construction complete unto itself, about which nothing more can be said, such is its richness, vitality, sense, wisdom. Understanding, seeing. Describing a flower: relative poetry more or less paper flower. Seeing." And so I stepped back from meaning, looked at a random poem as a construction, and found some sort of evocative sense, until I moved on to the next poem, and decided: these are not evocative, they're a jumble.
And there you have it, if the brilliance is only seen by a few is it brilliant? Yes, it is.
The collection has a cast of characters that repeat through the 55 poems, and the poems do seem to track a life, but... As an experiment I took the third line of the first ten poems and constructed a new poem - it seemed to make as much total sense as any of the other poems in the book. And then I thought I found the key in the 47th poem in the collection, and oddly enough, a poem in which I could suss out a disjointed sort of meaning. The key was this quote: "Art is a present the only construction complete unto itself, about which nothing more can be said, such is its richness, vitality, sense, wisdom. Understanding, seeing. Describing a flower: relative poetry more or less paper flower. Seeing." And so I stepped back from meaning, looked at a random poem as a construction, and found some sort of evocative sense, until I moved on to the next poem, and decided: these are not evocative, they're a jumble.
And there you have it, if the brilliance is only seen by a few is it brilliant? Yes, it is.
September 2, 2012
Here is Salamun, far as I can tell, at his most intellectual/ professorial, though in no way sacrificing his regular leaps, wows, and movements. Have Wikipedia handy for an enhanced experience.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews