Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Tomaž Šalamun

TRIUMPHAL ARCH

Yesterday afternoon Giorgio dropped in
again. I took him to lunch.
He showed me the poems he’d written in the
morning. Then he called up Alfonso
at San Luis Potosi, 113 A. Alfonso said
he’d wait for us on calle Jalapa but we
missed each other. We made it to
his old colonial house and waited out
front. He arrived in a Volkswagen, his head
shaven. I knew immediately he was a magician.
He seemed to take an interest in me.
He took us through the rooms, we talked
about Lévy, Sir Randolph. He was telling me
about his Zen teacher, he showed me
the book he was finishing: World Nutritional
Plan. Then we smoked something
he called plain grass from Palenque.
I was holding his things – swords,
spheres, rope crosses, playing with
little bottles of mercury. He said he would
perform a little show for the two of us.
He danced, he played and blew,
grinning constantly. You’ll be amazed
at the horrible power that kills, he said.
You won’t be able to resist joy.
Now I’ll continue writing my book,
he said, and drive you both downtown.
We got out at the Niza­–Hamburg
crossroads. We started walking. I was astonished
to take such large steps, to breathe so deeply,
move so smoothly. Where are we going,
I asked Giorgio. We’re going, he replied. Are you
scared? I said. He said he was sure
I wouldn’t kill him. I didn’t know anymore.
I felt the power would lead us
through the temple, that I would
eat his heart. We went somewhere to sit,
to have a drink, as our mouths
were very dry. We went on foot,
upon a carpet. We arrived at Avenida Juarez,
Giorgio pointed at the immense Triumphal Arch
on Plaza de la Republica. There’s my
hotel, he said. We walked for a mile
on a red carpet, a huge flag
fluttered from the Triumphal Arch. It was
November 20th, the Day of Mexico. Where are we going,
I asked him. To the beginning, he replied.
They’ll all be there, even the President of the Republic
and the Spanish King. I only felt my strength
growing, how I would first make love
to him and then eat up his heart. You know,
he said, Alfonso told me how
once a snake crawled before him. He stepped
aside yet the snake slithered toward him. It didn’t
kill him, because he gave it all the power. Do you think
I am the snake now, I said. No, he
said, you’re not a snake.
You’re walking parallel to me. He pointed
to the right, away from the carpet, which led
to the perpetual fire under the Triumphal Arch.
I grew sad. We walked for another hour
or two, the temple was always
either on our left or right. I remember
the sound of the fluttering flag. Then he
pointed out a window, that’s my window.
You decide, he said. The Hotel Pennsylvania
is all in tile, all covered with blue
glazed tiles. An old woman was
sleeping at the reception desk. Up in the room, 
he smoked and said, it’s your decision, it’s up to
you whether to kill me or not.
I stopped undoing my belt. I stopped
taking off his boots. I lay down and
fell asleep. When I woke up, Giorgio was
sitting on a raffia chair by the wall,
crying. You’re not the only one
who’d like to love, he said. I knew it was
done. I had drunk up his heart. I’ll be
off now, I said. Giorgio’s face was
radiant and beautiful. You see, he said,
reconciled. Light is for everyone. This
morning when I went out to breakfast, I
bought a paper Uno mas uno, and
read that 383 Americans committed
ritual suicide in the rain forest of Guayana
under the guidance of Jim Jones.

TRIOMFBOOG

Gistermiddag kwam Giorgio weer
bij me. Ik nam hem mee om te gaan lunchen.
Hij liet me de gedichten zien die hij ’s morgens
had geschreven. Daarna belde hij Alfonso,
op de San Luis Potosí, 113 A. Alfonso zei
dat hij in de calle Jalapa op ons zou wachten,
maar we liepen elkaar mis. We liepen naar
zijn oude koloniale huis en bleven daar
staan wachten. Hij kwam in een Volkswagen,
keurig geschoren. Ik zag meteen dat hij een tovenaar was.
Hij leek belangstelling voor me te hebben.
Hij leidde ons rond door de kamers, we praatten
over Lévy, Sir Randolph. Hij vertelde mij
over zijn zenmeester en toonde me
het boek dat hij bijna af had: Een wereldomvattend
voedselplan. Daarna rookten we iets waarvan
hij zei dat het gewoon gras uit Palenque was.
Ik pakte een paar voorwerpen vast: zwaarden,
ballen, kruisen van touw, en ik speelde met
kwik in kleine flesjes. Hij zei
dat hij voor ons een kleine show zou opvoeren.
Hij danste, hij speelde en blies, en intussen
grijnsde hij voortdurend. Je zult verbaasd zijn over
de enorme macht, die kan doden, zei hij.
Je kunt je tegen vreugde niet verzetten.
Nu ga ik verder met mijn boek,
zei hij, en ik zal jullie naar de binnenstad brengen.
We stapten uit op het kruispunt Niza-Hamburg.
We gingen lopen. Ik was verbaasd
dat ik zulke grote stappen maakte, dat ik zo
diep ademhaalde, en dat ik me zo makkelijk
bewoog. Waar gaan we naartoe? vroeg ik
aan Giorgio. We lopen gewoon, zei hij. Ben je bang?
vroeg ik hem. Hij zei dat hij zeker wist
dat ik hem niet zou vermoorden. Ik wist het niet meer.
Ik had het gevoel dat een macht
ons door de tempel zou leiden, dat ik zijn hart
zou opeten. We liepen door, om ergens
te gaan zitten, om iets te drinken, want we hadden
een heel droge mond. Daar liepen we, over
een tapijt. We kwamen op de Avenida Juárez,
Giorgio wees op de enorme Triomfboog
op de Plaza de la República. Daar is mijn
hotel, zei hij. We liepen een kilometer
over het rode tapijt, op de triomfboog
wapperde een enorme vlag. Het was 20
november, de nationale feestdag van Mexico. Waar gaan we naartoe?
vroeg ik hem. Naar het begin, zei hij.
Iedereen is daar, ook de president van de republiek en
de Spaanse koning. Ik voelde alleen dat
mijn kracht toenam, dat ik hem eerst
zou beminnen en dan zijn hart zou opeten. Weet je,
zei hij, Alfonse vertelde me dat er
een keer een slang voor hem verscheen. Hij week
achteruit, de slang kronkelde naar hem toe. Toen hij haar
al zijn kracht had gegeven, doodde ze hem niet. Denk jij misschien
dat ik nu die slang ben, vroeg
ik hem. Nee, zei hij, jij bent geen slang.
Jij loopt naast me, in een rechte lijn. Hij wees
naar rechts, van het tapijt vandaan, dat doorliep
tot de eeuwige vlam onder de triomfboog.
Ik werd treurig. Daarna wandelden we nog
een uur of twee, en steeds zo dat de tempel
links of rechts van ons was, ik herinner me
het geluid van de wapperende vlag. Daarna
wees hij naar een raam, dat is mijn raam.
Zeg jij het maar, zei hij. Hotel Pennsylvania
is helemaal betegeld, met blauwe,
geëmailleerde tegels. In de receptie zat
een oude vrouw te slapen. Nadat we in de kamer
hadden gerookt, zei hij: zeg het maar, het is
aan jou of je me doodt of niet.
Ik maakte mijn riem niet verder los. En trok
mijn schoenen niet verder uit. Ik ging liggen en
viel in slaap. Toen ik wakker werd, zat Giorgio
te huilen. Hij zat op een raffia stoel,
vlak bij de muur. Jij bent niet de enige die graag
zou liefhebben, zei hij. Ik voelde dat
het voorbij was. Ik had zijn hart leeggedronken. Dan
ga ik nu maar, zei ik. Giorgio's gezicht was
stralend en mooi. Zie je, zei hij
berustend. Het licht is voor iedereen. Toen ik
vanmorgen ging ontbijten en de krant Unomásuno kocht,
las ik dat 383 Amerikanen in de jungle van Guyana
ritueel zelfmoord hadden gepleegd
onder leiding van Jim Jones.
 

SLAVOLOK

Včeraj popoldne je spet prišel k meni
Giorgio. Peljal sem ga na kosilo.
Pokazal mi je pesmi, ki jih je napisal
zjutraj. Potem je telefoniral Alfonsu,
na San Luis Potosi, 113 A. Alfonso je
rekel, da naju bo čakal na calle Jalapa,
vendar smo se zgrešili. Šla sva proti
njegovi stari kolonialni hiši in čakala
pred njo. Pripeljal se je s volkswagnom,
obrit po glavi. Takoj sem vedel, da je čarovnik.
Zdelo se mi je, da sem ga zelo zanimal.
Peljal naju je po sobah, pogovarjala sva
se o Léviju, Sir Randolfu. Pripovedoval
mi je o svojem učitelju zena in mi pokazal
knjigo, ki jo končuje: Svetovni plan
prehrane. Potem smo kadili nekaj, kar je
rekel, da je navadna trava iz Palenqua.
Prijemal sem njegove predmete, meče
krogle, križe iz vrvi, se igral z
merkurjem v stekleničkah. Rekel je,
da bo priredil majhen show za naju.
Plesal je, igral in pihal, se vmes
neprestano režal. Začudil se boš nad
strašno močjo, ki ubija, je rekel.
Ne boš se mogel upirati veselju.
Zdaj bom nadaljeval s pisanjem knjige,
je rekel, in vaju zapeljal v center.
Izstopila sva na križišču Niza –
Hamburg. Začela sva hoditi. Čudil sem
se, da delam tako velike korake, da tako
globoko diham, da se gibljem tako
skladno. Kam greva? sem vprašal
Giorgia. Greva, je rekel. Se bojiš?
sem ga vprašal. Rekel je, da je prepričan,
da ga ne bom ubil. Jaz nisem več vedel.
Imel sem občutek, da naju bo sila
peljala skozi tempelj, da bom pojedel
njegovo srce. Šla sva, da bi se nekam
usedla, da bi nekaj spila, ker sva imela
zelo suha usta. Hodila sva peš, po
preprogi. Prišla sva na Avenido Juarez,
Giorgio je pokazal ogromen Slavolok
na Plaza de la Republica. Tam je moj
hotel, je rekel. Hodila sva kilometer
po rdeči preprogi, na slavoloku je
plapolala ogromna zastava. Bil je 20.
november, praznik Mehike. Kam greva?
sem ga vprašal. Na začetek, je rekel.
Vsi bodo tam, tudi predsednik republike in
španski kralj. Jaz sem samo čutil, kako
mi narašča moč, kako ga bom najprej
ljubil in mu potem pojedel srce.. Veš,
mi je rekel, Alfonso mi je pravil, da je
enkrat pred njega stopila kača. Umaknil
se je, kača je šla proti njemu. Ko ji je
dal vso moč, ga ni ubila. Se ti zdi,
da sem zdaj jaz tista kača, sem ga
vprašal. Ne, je rekel, ti nisi kača.
Ti hodiš vzporedno z mano. Pokazal je
s prstom na desno, dol s preproge, ki je
peljala proti večnemu ognju pod slavolokom,
postal sem žalosten. Potem sva hodila še
uro ali dve, zmeraj tako, da je bil
tempelj na levi ali desni, spomnim se
šuma plapolanja zastave. Potem je
pokazal na okno, to je moje okno.
Ti odloči, je rekel. Hotel Pennsylvania
je ves v kahlicah, prekrit je z modrimi
emajliranimi kahlicami. V recepciji je
spala stara ženska. V sobi, ko sva
kadila, je rekel, ti se odloči, na
tebi je, ali me ubiješ ali ne.
Nehal sem si odpenjati pas. Nehal sem
si sezuvati škornje. Ulegel sem se in
zaspal. Ko sem se zbudil, je Giorgio
jokal. Sedel je na stolu iz rafije,
stlačen ob steno. Nisi edini, ki bi rad
ljubil, je rekel. Čutil sem, da je
dopolnjeno. Spil sem njegovo srce. Zdaj
grem, sem rekel. Giorgiov obraz je bil
žareč in lep. Vidiš, je rekel
pomirjen. Svetloba je za vse. Danes
zjutraj, ko sem šel na zajtrk in
kupil časopis Uno mas uno, sem
prebral, da je v gvajanski džungli
naredilo ritualni samomor 383
Američanov pod vodstvom Jima Jonesa.
Close

TRIUMPHAL ARCH

Yesterday afternoon Giorgio dropped in
again. I took him to lunch.
He showed me the poems he’d written in the
morning. Then he called up Alfonso
at San Luis Potosi, 113 A. Alfonso said
he’d wait for us on calle Jalapa but we
missed each other. We made it to
his old colonial house and waited out
front. He arrived in a Volkswagen, his head
shaven. I knew immediately he was a magician.
He seemed to take an interest in me.
He took us through the rooms, we talked
about Lévy, Sir Randolph. He was telling me
about his Zen teacher, he showed me
the book he was finishing: World Nutritional
Plan. Then we smoked something
he called plain grass from Palenque.
I was holding his things – swords,
spheres, rope crosses, playing with
little bottles of mercury. He said he would
perform a little show for the two of us.
He danced, he played and blew,
grinning constantly. You’ll be amazed
at the horrible power that kills, he said.
You won’t be able to resist joy.
Now I’ll continue writing my book,
he said, and drive you both downtown.
We got out at the Niza­–Hamburg
crossroads. We started walking. I was astonished
to take such large steps, to breathe so deeply,
move so smoothly. Where are we going,
I asked Giorgio. We’re going, he replied. Are you
scared? I said. He said he was sure
I wouldn’t kill him. I didn’t know anymore.
I felt the power would lead us
through the temple, that I would
eat his heart. We went somewhere to sit,
to have a drink, as our mouths
were very dry. We went on foot,
upon a carpet. We arrived at Avenida Juarez,
Giorgio pointed at the immense Triumphal Arch
on Plaza de la Republica. There’s my
hotel, he said. We walked for a mile
on a red carpet, a huge flag
fluttered from the Triumphal Arch. It was
November 20th, the Day of Mexico. Where are we going,
I asked him. To the beginning, he replied.
They’ll all be there, even the President of the Republic
and the Spanish King. I only felt my strength
growing, how I would first make love
to him and then eat up his heart. You know,
he said, Alfonso told me how
once a snake crawled before him. He stepped
aside yet the snake slithered toward him. It didn’t
kill him, because he gave it all the power. Do you think
I am the snake now, I said. No, he
said, you’re not a snake.
You’re walking parallel to me. He pointed
to the right, away from the carpet, which led
to the perpetual fire under the Triumphal Arch.
I grew sad. We walked for another hour
or two, the temple was always
either on our left or right. I remember
the sound of the fluttering flag. Then he
pointed out a window, that’s my window.
You decide, he said. The Hotel Pennsylvania
is all in tile, all covered with blue
glazed tiles. An old woman was
sleeping at the reception desk. Up in the room, 
he smoked and said, it’s your decision, it’s up to
you whether to kill me or not.
I stopped undoing my belt. I stopped
taking off his boots. I lay down and
fell asleep. When I woke up, Giorgio was
sitting on a raffia chair by the wall,
crying. You’re not the only one
who’d like to love, he said. I knew it was
done. I had drunk up his heart. I’ll be
off now, I said. Giorgio’s face was
radiant and beautiful. You see, he said,
reconciled. Light is for everyone. This
morning when I went out to breakfast, I
bought a paper Uno mas uno, and
read that 383 Americans committed
ritual suicide in the rain forest of Guayana
under the guidance of Jim Jones.

TRIUMPHAL ARCH

Yesterday afternoon Giorgio dropped in
again. I took him to lunch.
He showed me the poems he’d written in the
morning. Then he called up Alfonso
at San Luis Potosi, 113 A. Alfonso said
he’d wait for us on calle Jalapa but we
missed each other. We made it to
his old colonial house and waited out
front. He arrived in a Volkswagen, his head
shaven. I knew immediately he was a magician.
He seemed to take an interest in me.
He took us through the rooms, we talked
about Lévy, Sir Randolph. He was telling me
about his Zen teacher, he showed me
the book he was finishing: World Nutritional
Plan. Then we smoked something
he called plain grass from Palenque.
I was holding his things – swords,
spheres, rope crosses, playing with
little bottles of mercury. He said he would
perform a little show for the two of us.
He danced, he played and blew,
grinning constantly. You’ll be amazed
at the horrible power that kills, he said.
You won’t be able to resist joy.
Now I’ll continue writing my book,
he said, and drive you both downtown.
We got out at the Niza­–Hamburg
crossroads. We started walking. I was astonished
to take such large steps, to breathe so deeply,
move so smoothly. Where are we going,
I asked Giorgio. We’re going, he replied. Are you
scared? I said. He said he was sure
I wouldn’t kill him. I didn’t know anymore.
I felt the power would lead us
through the temple, that I would
eat his heart. We went somewhere to sit,
to have a drink, as our mouths
were very dry. We went on foot,
upon a carpet. We arrived at Avenida Juarez,
Giorgio pointed at the immense Triumphal Arch
on Plaza de la Republica. There’s my
hotel, he said. We walked for a mile
on a red carpet, a huge flag
fluttered from the Triumphal Arch. It was
November 20th, the Day of Mexico. Where are we going,
I asked him. To the beginning, he replied.
They’ll all be there, even the President of the Republic
and the Spanish King. I only felt my strength
growing, how I would first make love
to him and then eat up his heart. You know,
he said, Alfonso told me how
once a snake crawled before him. He stepped
aside yet the snake slithered toward him. It didn’t
kill him, because he gave it all the power. Do you think
I am the snake now, I said. No, he
said, you’re not a snake.
You’re walking parallel to me. He pointed
to the right, away from the carpet, which led
to the perpetual fire under the Triumphal Arch.
I grew sad. We walked for another hour
or two, the temple was always
either on our left or right. I remember
the sound of the fluttering flag. Then he
pointed out a window, that’s my window.
You decide, he said. The Hotel Pennsylvania
is all in tile, all covered with blue
glazed tiles. An old woman was
sleeping at the reception desk. Up in the room, 
he smoked and said, it’s your decision, it’s up to
you whether to kill me or not.
I stopped undoing my belt. I stopped
taking off his boots. I lay down and
fell asleep. When I woke up, Giorgio was
sitting on a raffia chair by the wall,
crying. You’re not the only one
who’d like to love, he said. I knew it was
done. I had drunk up his heart. I’ll be
off now, I said. Giorgio’s face was
radiant and beautiful. You see, he said,
reconciled. Light is for everyone. This
morning when I went out to breakfast, I
bought a paper Uno mas uno, and
read that 383 Americans committed
ritual suicide in the rain forest of Guayana
under the guidance of Jim Jones.
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