Publisher’s Note
Rendering poetry in a digital format presents several challenges, just as its many forms continue to challenge the conventions of print. In print, however, a poem takes place within the static confines of a page, hewing as close as possible to the poet’s intent, whether it’s Walt Whitman’s lines stretching to the margin like Route 66, or Robert Creeley’s lines descending the page like a string tie. The printed poem has a physical shape, one defined by the negative space that surrounds it—a space that is crafted by the broken lines of the poem. The line, as vital a formal and critical component of the form of a poem as metaphor, creates rhythm, timing, proportion, drama, meaning, tension, and so on.
Reading poetry on a small device will not always deliver line breaks as the poet intended—with the pressure the horizontal line brings to a poem, rather than the completion of the grammatical unit. The line, intended as a formal and critical component of the form of the poem, has been corrupted by breaking it where it was not meant to break, interrupting a number of important elements of the poetic structure—rhythm, timing, proportion, drama, meaning, and so on. It’s a little like a tightrope walker running out of rope before reaching the other side.
There are limits to what can be done with long lines on digital screens. At some point, a line must break. If it has to break more than once or twice, it is no longer a poetic line, with the integrity that lineation demands. On smaller devices with enlarged type, a line break may not appear where its author intended, interrupting the unit of the line and its importance in the poem’s structure.
We attempt to accommodate long lines with a hanging indent—similar in fashion to the way Whitman’s lines were treated in books whose margins could not honor his discursive length. On your screen, a long line will break according to the space available, with the remainder of the line wrapping at an indent. This allows readers to retain control over the appearance of text on any device, while also indicating where the author intended the line to break.
This may not be a perfect solution, as some readers initially may be confused. We have to accept, however, that we are creating poetry e-books in a world that is imperfect for them—and we understand that to some degree the line may be compromised. Despite this, we’ve attempted to protect the integrity of the line, thus allowing readers of poetry to travel fully stocked with the poetry that needs to be with them.
—Dan Halpern, Publisher
Dedication
For Helen
Epigraph
As if one needed eyes in order to see
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Publisher’s Note
Dedication
Epigraph
I
Some Birds Chirp
Hide-and-Seek
Blind Fate
Come Closer and Listen
The Old Orphan
Skywalking
The Fall
Summer Night
Metaphysics Anonymous
Mad People
Soap Bubbles
Open Late
Psst
Astronomy Lesson
II
Something Evil Is Out There
Terror
After the Bombing
Arson
Greek Story
Strolling Players
You’ll Be Pleased with Our Product
Light Sleeper
Monsters
In My Church
Among My Late Visitors
O Great Starry Sky
At Giubbe Rosse in Florence
Tugboat
The Last Lesson
III
Meditation in the Gutter
Strange Sweetness
My Little Heaven
Imponderabilia
Bed Music
The Henhouse Is on Fire
The Many Lauras
The American Dream
Among the Ruins
The Judgment
Birds of a Feather
Truck Stop
That Young Fellow
Hey, Loudmouth
It’s a Day like Any Other
IV
The Hand That Rocks the Cradle
Sunday Service
Charmed Circle
Haystack
Birds at Dusk
Sit Tight
Late Night Quiz
Dice
Is That You?
Such at Least Is the Story
Taking a Breather
The Joke
After Saying Your Prayer
Ghost Ship
Last Picnic
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Poetry by Charles Simic
Copyright
About the Publisher
I
Some Birds Chirp
Others have nothing to say.
You see them pace back and forth,
Nodding their heads as they do.
It must be something huge
That’s driving them nuts--
Life in general, being a bird.
Too much for one little brain
To figure out on its own.
Still, no harm trying, I guess,
Even with all the racket
Made by its neighbors,
Darting and bickering nonstop.
Haven’t found anyone
From the old gang.
They must be still in hiding,
Holding their breaths
And trying not to laugh.
Our street is down on its luck,
Its windows broken here and there
Where on summer nights
We heard couples arguing,
Or saw them dancing to the radio.
The redhead we were
All madly in love with,
Who sat on her fire escape
Smoking late into the night,
Must be in hiding too.
The skinny boy
On crutches
Who always carried a book,
May not have
Gotten very far.
Darkness comes early
This time of year
Making it hard
To recognize familiar faces
Among those of strangers.
Blind Fate
Grabbing someone in the street,
Letting another go scot-free,
Like that crazy old woman
With something urgent to say
You couldn’t make any sense of,
Who hooked you by the arm,
Till you tore yourself away,
Only to bump into a beggar
Scattering coins from his cup
And having to listen to him
Chew you out and curse you
In front of all these people.
What comes next, you’ll never know.
Blind fate here runs the show.
Come Closer and Listen
I was born--don’t know the hour--
Slapped on the ass
And handed over crying
To someone many years dead
In a country no longer on a map,
Where like a leaf in a tree,
The fair weather gone,
I twirled around and fell to the ground
With barely a sound
For the wind to carry me away
Blessed or cursed--who is to say?
I no longer fret about it,
Since I’ve heard people talk
Of a blind lady called Justice
Eager to hear everyone’s troubles,
But don’t know where to find her
&nb
sp; And ask her the reason
The world treats me some days well,
Some days ill. Still, I’d never
Be the first to blame her.
Blind as she is, poor thing,
She does the best she can.
The Old Orphan
For Andrew Periale
The sparrows in the gutter knew you
And hopped out of the way,
The trash being blown about
By the wind gusting did as well.
A few scenes from your life
Were about to be performed
By a puppet theater in the park,
When it started to rain hard,
Making the great trees panic
Along with mothers and children,
Who ran shrieking for cover
Wherever they could find one,
Except for you, already seated
In a long row of empty chairs,
Waiting for your angry stepfather
To step out from behind a curtain.
Skywalking
Much grief awaits us, friends.
From this day on
We’ll be testing our luck
Like a man stretching a wire
Between two skyscrapers,
Who sets out to walk on it
Carrying an open umbrella
Which the wind may snatch away
When he is halfway,
And then have its fun
Bouncing it off walls and windows.
We are likely to forget the man
Waving his arms up there
Like a scarecrow in a squall.
The Fall
One flaps his arms to arrest the fall
One climbs a ladder he brought along
One goes on laughing at some joke
One opens a large red umbrella
One grasps at a straw floating in the air
Overjoyed to hold it for a moment
Distraught to see it slip away like that
You up there did you ever save anyone?
A young woman shouts angrily
As she falls alongside her children
Quiet and alone with their thoughts
Summer Night
A swarm of half-naked, tattoo-covered bodies
To squeeze through on the sidewalk,
Past a raised dagger dripping with blood
And a winged serpent paused to attack.
Young boys smoke reefers and shoot baskets
In the dark playground. Drunk old men
Mutter to themselves on park benches
While garish birds and bats flit past them,
Each of whom carries an occult meaning
Their owner would be happy to relate.
Don’t be so foolish as to stop and inquire
About the Spider-Man on a shaved head,
Or the angel of death on a girl’s back
As they crowd the entrance of a club
Where some dude in a white tux
Has the huge dance floor all to himself.
Metaphysics Anonymous
A storefront mission in a slum
Where we come together at night
To confess our fatal addiction
For knowledge beyond appearances,
Estranged from family and friends
While racking our brains whether
The world we see is truly out there,
Or it never leaves our minds.
The unreality of us asking for help
An additional quandary to ponder
As we line up with bowed heads
For coffee and cookies to be served.
Mad People
Only birds and animals these days
Are sane and worth talking to.
I don’t mind waiting for a horse
To stop grazing and hear me out.
Even a tree is better company.
Some oak proud of its branches
Heavy with leaves too polite
To address a stranger above a whisper.
A crow would make a good friend.
The one I have my eye on
Knows me well, but is currently
Busy with something he’s spotted
In my neighbor’s yard, going over
The scorched ground where
Years ago a dozen hens used to roam
And a rooster who crowed all day.
Soap Bubbles
They tore down the seedy block
Of small, dimly lit shops
With their dusty displays
Of love bracelets, nose rings,
Tarot cards and sticks of incense,
Where once I saw a young man
With blood all over his white shirt
Blow soap bubbles in the air,
His face unruffled and handsome
Save when he puffed his cheeks.
Open Late
A small-town laundromat brightly lit
On a street of darkened storefronts
With an aged Elvis in it studying a page
Of some well-worn girlie magazine.
A few motley clouds in the night sky,
One hovering over like a death mask,
Its hollow eye pits taking it all in,
While his torn jeans spin in the machine.
Psst
Don’t go psst
With a finger
Over your lips,
You seated behind me at the movies,
Or in church
Where I bow my head to pray,
Or in this dive
Where I’m the sole customer,
Shushing me
Out of a dark corner
As I hum to myself
With eyes closed
Thinking of God-knows-what.
Astronomy Lesson
The silent laughter
Of the stars
In the night sky
Tells us all
We need to know
II
Something Evil Is Out There
That’s what the leaves are telling us tonight.
Hear them panic and then fall silent,
And though we strain our ears we hear nothing--
Which is even more terrifying than something.
Minutes seem to pass or whole lifetimes,
While we wait for it to show itself
This very moment, or surely the next?
As the trees rush to make us believe
Their branches knocking on the house
To be let in and then hesitating.
All those leaves falling quiet in unison
As if not wishing to add to our fear,
With something evil lurking out there
And drawing closer and closer to us.
The house dark and quiet as a mouse
If one had the nerve to stick around.
Terror
Saw a toad
jump out of boiling water
Saw a chicken
dance on a hot plate
in a penny arcade
Saw Etruscans in a museum
flogging slaves
to the accompaniment
of pipes and flutes
Saw a palm tree
trying to outrun a hurricane
Saw sea waves
rush ashore
some angry
some afraid
of what they’ll find
Saw men and women
lose their heads
and search for them everywhere
Saw a feast laid out
on a long table
to which only crows came
Saw a dog go forth
barking like a prophet of old
Saw rats and mice
running terrified
through mazes
heralding
the evils to come
After the Bombing
A great city lay reduced to ruins
As
you stirred in a hammock
Closing your eyes and letting
The paper you were reading
Fall out of your hand to the ground,
Where the afternoon breeze
Took an interest in it and swept it
Back and forth across the lawn
Toward the neighboring woods,
So the owls can study the headlines
As soon as night comes
And shriek from time to time,
Making mice shake in their beds.
Arson
Shirts rose on a neighbor’s laundry line,
One or two attempting to fly,
As three fire engines sped by
To save a church going up in flames.
People walking back from the pyre
With their Sunday clothes in tatters
Looked like a troupe of scarecrows
The bank had ousted from their farm.
As for the firebug, we were of two minds:
Some kid trying out a new drug,
Or a drunk ex-soldier angry at God
And country for making him a cripple.
Greek Story
For Hugh and Alisa
Where can I cook for these people
Whose boat had sunk at sea
The old woman went around asking
Where can I cook for these people
Huddled together and weeping
Or sitting alone with their grief
Where can I cook for these people
Who sailed to us this stormy day
Heaven doesn’t hear the cries
Of the ones drowning but I do
Where can I cook for these people
The old woman went around asking
And the dead washed ashore
Opened their eyes like children
Shaken out of a bad dream
And pressed forward to kiss her hand
Strolling Players
Carrying a coffin of a soldier one dark night
Through a small, sleeping village,
Then filing quietly into someone’s yard,
Hoping dogs won’t bark, children won’t cry
And whoever awakes will look out
As they get set and distribute their parts
To enact without a word being spoken,