Charles Simic
Heights Of Folly
O crows circling over my head and cawing! I admit to being, at times, Suddenly, and without the slightest warning, Exceedingly happy. On a morning otherwise sunless, Strolling arm in arm Past some gallows-shaped
Poem Without A Title
I say to the lead Why did you let yourself Be cast into a bullet? Have you forgotten the alchemists? Have you given up hope In turning into gold? Nobody answers. Lead. Bullet. With
Against Winter
The truth is dark under your eyelids. What are you going to do about it? The birds are silent; there’s no one to ask. All day long you’ll squint at the gray sky. When
Inner Man
It isn’t the body That’s a stranger. It’s someone else. We poke the same Ugly mug At the world. When I scratch He scratches too. There are women Who claim to have held him.
Private Eye
To find clues where there are none, That’s my job now, I said to the Dictionary on my desk. The world beyond My window has grown illegible, And so has the clock on the
The Initiate
St. John of the Cross wore dark glasses As he passed me on the street. St. Theresa of Avila, beautiful and grave, Turned her back on me. “Soulmate,” they hissed. “It’s high time.” I
Coal
Dismembered angel In whose heart the earth is still on fire, The moon still has not been split-off; Here is the message Your long night announces: Everything my eye encompasses this instant: This fire,
To The One Upstairs
Boss of all bosses of the universe. Mr. know-it-all, wheeler-dealer, wire-puller, And whatever else you’re good at. Go ahead, shuffle your zeros tonight. Dip in ink the comets’ tails. Staple the night with starlight.
Clouds Gathering
It seemed the kind of life we wanted. Wild strawberries and cream in the morning. Sunlight in every room. The two of us walking by the sea naked. Some evenings, however, we found ourselves
Hotel Insomnia
I liked my little hole, Its window facing a brick wall. Next door there was a piano. A few evenings a month A crippled old man came to play “My Blue Heaven.” Mostly, though,
Read Your Fate
A world’s disappearing. Little street, You were too narrow, Too much in the shade already. You had only one dog, One lone child. You hid your biggest mirror, Your undressed lovers. Someone carted them
Mummy's Curse
Befriending an eccentric young woman The sole resident of a secluded Victorian mansion. She takes long walks in the evening rain, And so do I, with my hair full of dead leaves. In her
Country Fair
for Hayden Carruth If you didn’t see the six-legged dog, It doesn’t matter. We did, and he mostly lay in the corner. As for the extra legs, One got used to them quickly And
The White Room
The obvious is difficult To prove. Many prefer The hidden. I did, too. I listened to the trees. They had a secret Which they were about to Make known to me And then didn’t.
How To Psalmodize
1. The Poet Someone awake when others are sleeping, Asleep when others are awake. An illiterate who signs everything with an X. A man about to be hanged cracking a joke. 2. The Poem
The School Of Metaphysics
Executioner happy to explain How his wristwatch works As he shadows me on the street. I call him that because he is grim and officious And wears black. The clock on the church tower
The Oldest Child
The night still frightens you. You know it is interminable And of vast, unimaginable dimensions. “That’s because His insomnia is permanent,” You’ve read some mystic say. Is it the point of His schoolboy’s compass
Errata
Where it says snow Read teeth-marks of a virgin Where it says knife read You passed through my bones Like a police-whistle Where it says table read horse Where it says horse read my
The Partial Explanation
Seems like a long time Since the waiter took my order. Grimy little luncheonette, The snow falling outside. Seems like it has grown darker Since I last heard the kitchen door Behind my back
Wherein Obscurely
On the road with billowing poplars, In a country flat and desolate To the far-off gray horizon, wherein obscurely, A man and a woman went on foot, Each carrying a small suitcase. They were
Paradise Motel
Millions were dead; everybody was innocent. I stayed in my room. The President Spoke of war as of a magic love potion. My eyes were opened in astonishment. In a mirror my face appeared
This Morning
Enter without knocking, hard-working ant. I’m just sitting here mulling over What to do this dark, overcast day? It was a night of the radio turned down low, Fitful sleep, vague, troubling dreams. I
The Supreme Moment
As an ant is powerless Against a raised boot, And only has an instant To have a bright idea or two. The black boot so polished, He can see himself Reflected in it, distorted,
The Something
Here come my night thoughts On crutches, Returning from studying the heavens. What they thought about Stayed the same, Stayed immense and incomprehensible. My mother and father smile at each other Knowingly above the
Summer In The Country
One shows me how to lie down in a field of clover. Another how to slip my hand under her Sunday skirt. Another how to kiss with a mouth full of blackberries. Another how
Eyes Fastened With Pins
How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone Ironing death’s laundry. The beautiful daughters Setting death’s supper table. The neighbors playing Pinochle in
The Bather
Where the path to the lake twists out of sight, A puff of dust, the kind bare feet make running, Is what I saw in the dying light, Night swooping down everywhere else. A
The Wooden Toy
1 The brightly-painted horse Had a boy’s face, And four small wheels Under his feet, Plus a long string To pull him by this way and that Across the floor, Should you care to.
A Book Full of Pictures
Father studied theology through the mail And this was exam time. Mother knitted. I sat quietly with a book Full of pictures. Night fell. My hands grew cold touching the faces Of dead kings
Talking To Little Birdies
Not a peep out of you now After the bedlam early this morning. Are you begging pardon of me Hidden up there among the leaves, Or are your brains momentarily overtaxed? You savvy a
White
A New Version: 1980 What is that little black thing I see there in the white? Walt Whitman One Out of poverty To begin again: With the color of the bride And that of