Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Saturday, January 10, 2015

Ode for Tomaž Šalamun

my winter coat clutters with oddities,
the knots of coarse twine you gave me

once—reminders
cathedral bells stand

without clappers
without voices

a wild red-tail rabbit
crushed in the middle of back roads

lies in the blue midnight
wild onions in my pockets

like pebbles
taste of onions on my tongue


Within the Iron Age grave of a woman in Denmark, a bronze box was found containing a preserved ball of yarn and an onion bulb
two small moons,
a spell of protection,
idols,
domestic symbols,
earthy mysticism
Last night the house shivered within occasional power surges— three to five times throughout various hours. I kept waking from sleep, forced to reset the alarm clock. Over and over. Delaying a full uninterrupted sleep.
Tomaž Šalamun passed away in late December. I remember meeting him briefly almost twenty years ago at a poetry reading when I was a student working towards my MFA at Vermont College. He carried with him a heavy sense of poetry—meaning even his every intake of breath seemed to contain a profound sense of potential for later use in verse.

Read his poem "History." You will understand the complexity of many of his poems.

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