Tomaž Šalamun – SEASONS

In Šalamun’s poetry, featured by its determined presence here and now, and simultaneously omnipresence and everpresence, fixation and doubtfulness imply a massive quake. The voice of Šalamun’s poetry is suddenly no longer acousmatic for it is, more than ever, marked by everything too human, i.e. by time and its dedication to the course of history: We shall be rejected like cats in the crates into the arms of God. Even though he is completely aware of his predestined presence (I shall grow tired and neglect myself. Save yourself.), there is something elegiac and elated in the way he accepts his responsibility. We may have been inclined to think of taking and depriving in his poetic creations, but the turn has come for giving and returning: Doing it in the city? Returning. Neither hurting nor killing. Returning. With time the lines of Šalamun’s speakers get clearer and brought into the world inhabited by other selves. With some of them, specially with those whose feelings or memories – they do not allow choosing – take them to privileged places, he establishes sincere relationships, filled with vulnerability. The world no longer rules over a timeless moment (I had (…) everything in the nature, yet timeless). Every moment is being re-established as a random point in a sequence where self in a polyphony silently brushes against the past. What is replacing former self-sufficient destruction and seizing, for their exemption from time they are not considered responsible, is the strength – withering away, yet necessary for laborious construction. Šalamun’s rejected self sees its former existence as a form of repetition resulting in (there are hints thereof) blazing love: Nights were strange. You stirred up my lungs. The repetition of beginnings transforms into the acceptance of the inevitable ending that is really worth efforts: Yes. Whales shall end up my life. I am giving it up for what I have tried out. I am giving it up for what I am trying out now.