Publisher's Weekly Review With his collection The World Doesn't End a Pulitzer winner, and 's Walking the Black Cat an NBA finalist, Simic has achieved major recognition for his wryly acerbic meditations and send-ups; this selection from his last eight books excluding the prose poems of The World Doesn't End , matched with 19 new poems, should pave the way for more.
Library Journal Review Always the poetic master, the Simic we meet in these poems originally published in books from to the present is no longer one who would, to quote one of his very early poems, "Go inside a stone"-and presumably shut the rest of the world out. It was dark already. One could not see her face Bundled up as she was and furtive.
She went as if wind-swept, as if crow-winged. The chalk must have been given to her by a child. One kept looking for him in the crowd, Expecting him to be very pale, very serious, With a chip of black slate in his pocket. There were scaffolds, Makeshift stages, Puny figures on them, Like small indistinct animals Caught in the headlights Crossing the road way ahead, In the gray twilight That went on hesitating On the verge of a huge Starless autumn night.
One could've been in The back of an open truck Hunkering because of The speed and chill.
One could've been walking With a sidelong glance At the many troubling shapes The bare trees made- Like those about to shriek, But finding themselves unable To utter a word now. One could've been in One of these dying mill towns Inside a small dim grocery When the news broke.
THE VOICE AT 3:00 A.M.: Selected Late and New Poems
One would've drawn near the radio With the one many months pregnant Who serves there at that hour. Was there a smell of Spilled blood in the air, Or was it that other, Much finer scent-of fear, The fear of approaching death One met on the empty street? Monsters on movie posters, too, Prominently displayed. Then, six factory girls, Arm in arm, laughing As if they've been drinking. At the very least, one Could've been one of them. The one with a mouth Painted bright red, Who feels out of sorts, For no reason, very pale, And so, excusing herself, Vanishes where it says: Rooms for Rent, And immediately goes to bed, Fully dressed, only To lie with eyes open, Trembling, despite the covers.
It's just a bad chill, She keeps telling herself Not having seen the papers Which the landlord has the dog Bring from the front porch. The old man never learned To read well, and so Reads on in that half-whisper, And in that half-light Verging on the dark, About that day's tragedies Which supposedly are not Tragedies in the absence of Figures endowed with Classic nobility of soul. Wonders that he hasn't been there yet. Says it looks like a Federal courthouse With its many steps and massive columns. Apparently not many people go there On such drizzly gray afternoons.
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Says even she gets afraid In the large empty exhibition halls With monstrous ideas in glass cases, Naked emotions on stone pedestals In classically provocative poses. Says she doesn't understand why he claims All that reminds him of a country fair. Admits there's a lot of old dust And the daylight is the color of sepia, Just like on this picture postcard With its two lovers chastely embracing Against a painted cardboard sunset. The comb tucked inside a handkerchief Scented with the extract of dead roses- While you took your high seat Sternly eyeing each of the accused In the hush of the empty courtroom.
The dark curly hairs in the comb Did not come from your graying head.
The Voice at A.m: Selected Late & New Poems - Charles Simic - Google Книги
One of the cleaning women used it on herself While you dozed off in your chambers Half undressed because of the heat. The black comb in the pocket over the heart, You feel it tremble just as ours do When they ready themselves to make music Lacking only the paper you're signing, By the looks of it, with eyes closed. October sky and the Cloud of Unknowing. The routes of eternity beckoning. Sign and enigma in the humblest of things. Master cobbler Jakob Boehme Sat in our kitchen all morning.
He sipped tea and warned of the quiet To which the wise must school themselves. The young woman paid no attention. Hair fallen over her eyes, Breasts loose and damp in her robe, Stubbornly scrubbing a difficult stain. Then the dog's bark brought us all outdoors, And that wasn't just geese honking, But Dame Julian of Norwich herself discoursing On the marvelous courtesy and homeliness of the Maker.
My heart as its only bellhop. My brain as its Chinese cook. It's a run-down seaside place With a row of gutted limousines out front, Monkeys and fighting cocks in the great ballroom, Potted palm trees grown wild to the ceilings.
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Amelia surrounded by her beaus and fortune-tellers, Painting her eyelashes and lips blue In the hour of dusk with the open sea beyond, The long empty beaches, the tide's shimmer Bernard of Clairvaux, who wrote on love? A hotel in which one tangos to a silence Which has the look of cypresses in silent films In which children confide to imaginary friends In which pages of an important letter are flying But now a buzz from the suite with mirrors. Amelia in the nude, black cotton over her eyes. It seems there's a fly On the tip of her lover's Roman nose. Night of distant guns, distant and comfortable.
I am coming with a flyswatter on a silver tray. Ah the Turkish delights!
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And the Mask of Tragedy over her pubic hair. Others have pictures of saints, Others have clouds in the sky. A unique way for readers to create a wealth of great books— Get a membership for yourself or for a gift! Add a gift card to your order!
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