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 abandon: “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 Tomaž 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, mad: The Blue Tower is an essential volume.
The goldfinch sails. The goldfinch sings. Where are you, Eugenijus? Racing
across, opening a hollow with your fingernails. You the pain of the contour, me
that of the train. Linda Bierds drives a car that comes from the Tatras. The condor
ripens the bird. My trousers smell like gasoline. Do you see the pool? Do you see
the pool? Do you see the angel's elbow? It led me to those cliffs arrayed like
Vikings. Zebras have scraped eyes. Ibrahim, Drago and Miklavž are great guys.
Iodine boils ...