The Rains of Ljubljana
poem begun in the Allegro Hotel and ending with two lines by Tomaž Šalamun
Schnapps and blueberry juice in glistening tulip glasses
to greet us as we step from the deluge.
Ljubljana, because of the music of its name.
And because I’d once heard Tomaž Šalamun read.
He described the breakdown he suffered at Yaddo
and said re-entering his poems was slightly
terrifying since they were hammered out of the same torrent
that hospitalized him. What joy, then, watching him dance
his “Slovenian Twist” at the reading’s afterparty.
Decades later, in his Ljubljana, it rained all night.
Lightning forks so vivid we saw them through closed eyes.
By morning, the storm still roared: during breakfast
an antiphonal chorus of church bells and thunderclaps.
And Sarah and Joe. We never got their last names
but this poem is for two Americans who sat at the next table.
Joe said last night’s flashes were so bright he worried
his retina was detaching. And when Šalamun’s name came up,
Sarah quoted the first line of “History,” Tomaž Šalamun is a monster.
I offered the opening of “Folk Song”: Every
true poet is a monster. From there, our breakfast became a feast.
Under those vaulted ceilings, we wondered if a thunderstorm
had ever lasted so long, and whether Tomaž Šalamun
was God, or Jonah, or maybe a sunflower.
There were four bad years after Yaddo when he couldn’t write
until daily swims helped balance the pressure.
Tomaž Šalamun was a fish. He was the most dazzling of sea urchins.
No need for us to hurry outdoors into that cloudburst. Was it Annie or me,
Sarah or Joe, who came up with that breakfast’s benediction?
I have a friend whose daughter’s name is Breditza.
In the evening when they put her to bed she says Šalamun and falls asleep.