New Poet Laureate

[Angeline]

The poet Charles Simic is the new U.S. Poet Laureate. He'll replace Donald Hall. Both of them live in New Hampshire. Maybe Rybka will be next.

As I recall denis hale is a fan of Simic's. Maybe if he's lurking, he'll post a few of his favorite poems. (Hint, hint.)

Anyone else here like Simic, know him? I have to admit that although I've read him, I don't particularly remember any of his poems, so I'll read some now and post a few I like. I hope you will, too.

Against Winter
by Charles Simic

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 the wind blows you'll shiver like straw.
A meek little lamb you grew your wool
Till they came after you with huge shears.
Flies hovered over open mouth,
Then they, too, flew off like the leaves,
The bare branches reached after them in vain.
Winter coming. Like the last heroic soldier
Of a defeated army, you'll stay at your post,
Head bared to the first snow flake.
Till a neighbor comes to yell at you,
You're crazier than the weather, Charlie.



This Morning
by Charles Simic

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 woke up lovesick and confused.
I thought I heard Estella in the garden singing
And some bird answering her,
But it was the rain. Dark tree tops swaying
And whispering. "Come to me my desire,"
I said. And she came to me by and by,
Her breath smelling of mint, her tongue
Wetting my cheek, and then she vanished.
Slowly day came, a gray streak of daylight
To bathe my hands and face in.
Hours passed, and then you crawled
Under the door, and stopped before me.
You visit the same tailors the mourners do,
Mr. Ant. I like the silence between us,
The quiet--that holy state even the rain
Knows about. Listen to her begin to fall,
As if with eyes closed,
Muting each drop in her wild-beating heart.
​

 

[Angeline]

Country Fair
by Charles Simic

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 thought of other things.
Like, what a cold, dark night
To be out at the fair.

Then the keeper threw a stick
And the dog went after it
On four legs, the other two flapping behind,
Which made one girl shriek with laughter.

She was drunk and so was the man
Who kept kissing her neck.
The dog got the stick and looked back at us.
And that was the whole show.

​

 

[Angeline]

I really like this one

Hotel Insomnia
by Charles Simic

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, it was quiet.
Each room with its spider in heavy overcoat
Catching his fly with a web
Of cigarette smoke and revery.
So dark,
I could not see my face in the shaving mirror.

At 5 A.M. the sound of bare feet upstairs.
The "Gypsy" fortuneteller,
Whose storefront is on the corner,
Going to pee after a night of love.
Once, too, the sound of a child sobbing.
So near it was, I thought
For a moment, I was sobbing myself.

​

 

[TheRainMan]

the Poet Laureate is going to yell at you if you don't stop centering his poems, Miss Playful.

 

[Angeline]

the Poet Laureate is going to yell at you if you don't stop centering his poems, Miss Playful.

You really think he'd care? He doesn't really do anything with spacing (aside from the line breaks, of course).

And you didn't answer the question! Do you like him? I'm interested to know what you think of him. I find him narrative but more edgy that the previous laureates. I first read him in a book of New York Poets (second generation, after Ginsberg) many years ago.

 

[TheRainMan]

You really think he'd care? He doesn't really do anything with spacing (aside from the line breaks, of course).

And you didn't answer the question! Do you like him? I'm interested to know what you think of him. I find him narrative but more edgy that the previous laureates. I first read him in a book of New York Poets (second generation, after Ginsberg) many years ago.

yes -- i love his poetry. and he's definately more edgy than Donald Hall or Billy Collins, the last 2 Laureates.

centering poems horrifies me. it's so . . . girly.

and if i had to guess, i'd say he doesn't do anything with spacing because he thinks it's pointless gimmickry . . . and if he wanted them shaped, he'd have probably done it himself.

great that you highlighted his appointment. he really is a worthy choice.

 

[Angeline]

yes -- i love his poetry. and he's definately more edgy than Donald Hall or Billy Collins, the last 2 Laureates.

centering poems horrifies me. it's so . . . girly.

and if i had to guess, i'd say he doesn't do anything with spacing because he thinks it's pointless gimmickry . . . and if he wanted them shaped, he'd have probably done it himself.

great that you highlighted his appointment. he really is a worthy choice.

You can take off the centering if you want.

That's twice in two days I've been called "girly" (sort of). And I threw like a girl earlier this afternoon. Oh well. I yam what I yam.

 

[annaswirls]

Here you go, Rainman (okay it was partly selfish, I get squeamish over centered poetry as well.)

Also, here is a good old Wiki article, including several links and biographical info:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Simic

Thanks Angeline for posting this! I enjoyed "County Fair" the most

Against Winter
by Charles Simic

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 the wind blows you'll shiver like straw.
A meek little lamb you grew your wool
Till they came after you with huge shears.
Flies hovered over open mouth,
Then they, too, flew off like the leaves,
The bare branches reached after them in vain.
Winter coming. Like the last heroic soldier
Of a defeated army, you'll stay at your post,
Head bared to the first snow flake.
Till a neighbor comes to yell at you,
You're crazier than the weather, Charlie.



This Morning
by Charles Simic

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 woke up lovesick and confused.
I thought I heard Estella in the garden singing
And some bird answering her,
But it was the rain. Dark tree tops swaying
And whispering. "Come to me my desire,"
I said. And she came to me by and by,
Her breath smelling of mint, her tongue
Wetting my cheek, and then she vanished.
Slowly day came, a gray streak of daylight
To bathe my hands and face in.
Hours passed, and then you crawled
Under the door, and stopped before me.
You visit the same tailors the mourners do,
Mr. Ant. I like the silence between us,
The quiet--that holy state even the rain
Knows about. Listen to her begin to fall,
As if with eyes closed,
Muting each drop in her wild-beating heart.



Country Fair
by Charles Simic

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 thought of other things.
Like, what a cold, dark night
To be out at the fair.

Then the keeper threw a stick
And the dog went after it
On four legs, the other two flapping behind,
Which made one girl shriek with laughter.

She was drunk and so was the man
Who kept kissing her neck.
The dog got the stick and looked back at us.
And that was the whole show.


Hotel Insomnia
by Charles Simic

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, it was quiet.
Each room with its spider in heavy overcoat
Catching his fly with a web
Of cigarette smoke and revery.
So dark,
I could not see my face in the shaving mirror.

At 5 A.M. the sound of bare feet upstairs.
The "Gypsy" fortuneteller,
Whose storefront is on the corner,
Going to pee after a night of love.
Once, too, the sound of a child sobbing.
So near it was, I thought
For a moment, I was sobbing myself.

 

[Angeline]

Thank you, J, for reposting the poems so that you and RM are more comfortable. I certainly didn't intend to make anyone squeamish. I was just enjoying the poems and wanted to share them. Perhaps in my enthusiasm to get attention for them, I offended poets' sensibilities. That is never my intention here.

I like Country Fair the best of his poems I read today, too. There are quite a few more of his poems at the Poem Hunter, but I don't like to link to that site because it has too many pop-ups. If anyone wants to read more and has an effective pop-up crusher, it's a good site for his poetry.

 

[Tzara]

That's twice in two days I've been called "girly" (sort of). And I threw like a girl earlier this afternoon. Oh well. I yam what I yam.

Y'are what y'are, and we (not to say Mr. E.) wouldn't have it otherwise.

Here's Professor Simic in text and Real Audio.

 

[denis hale]

Wow,

this is tremendous news!

I think the world of Charles Simic.
He is so deserving of this honor!


More people will get to dig him, now.
That is excellent.



Here ya go, Ange:



4 by Simic
(c) all rights reserved


GHOSTS

It’s Mr. Brown looking much better
Than he did in the morgue.
He’s brought me a huge carp
In a bloodstained newspaper.
What an odd visit.
I haven’t thought of him in years.

Linda is with him and so is Sue.
Two pale and elegant fading memories
Holding each other by the hand.
Even their lipstick is fresh
Despite all the scientific proofs
To the contrary.

Is Linda going to cook the fish?
She turns and gazes in the direction
Of the kitchen while Sue
Continues to watch me mournfully.
I don’t believe any of it,
And still I’m scared stiff.

I know of no way to respond,
So I do nothing.
The windows are open. The air’s thick
With the scent of magnolias.
Drops of evening rain are dripping
From the dark and heavy leaves.
I take a deep breath; I close my eyes.

Dear specters, I don’t even believe
You are here, so how is it
You’re making me comprehend
Things I would rather not know just yet?

It’s the way you stare past me
At what must already be my own ghost,
Before taking your leave,
As unexpectedly as you came in,
Without one of us breaking the silence.



LITTLE UNWRITTEN BOOK

Rocky was a regular guy, a loyal friend.
The trouble was he was only a cat.
Let’s practice, he’d say, and he’d pounce
On his shadow on the wall.
I have to admit, I didn’t learn a thing.
I often sat watching him sleep.
If the birds tried to have a bit of fun in the yard,
He opened one eye.
I even commended him for good behavior.

He was black except for the white gloves he wore.
He played the piano in the parlor
By walking over its keys back and forth.
With exquisite tact he chewed my ear
If I wouldn’t get up from my chair.
Then one day he vanished. I called.
I poked in the bushes.
I walked far into the woods.

The mornings were the hardest. I’d put out
A saucer of milk at the back door.
Peekaboo, a bird called out. She knew.
At one time we had ten farmhands working for us.
I’d make a megaphone with my hands and call.
I still do, though it’s been years.
Rocky, I cry!
And now the bird is silent too.



ROACH MOTEL

The fears of my mother,
And I their projectionist
Cranking the projector.

An evening of noir films.
The electric chair is in it,
And so are the cops.
I’m smoking a cheap cigar,
Playing poker with a scar-faced killer
And a fat woman with a husky voice.
She drinks gin out of a bottle,
Sways her hips to the radio,
Has wedding plans.
At daybreak, a web of twisting shadows
Cast by a ceiling fan.
I have holes in my socks,
An asthmatic wheeze
When I kneel down to pray.

I also have a long tail
And look like a monkey
Because I keep lying all the time.



HOT NIGHT

Long haired Jesus,
Arms outstretched,
Reeling,
In an open yellow convertible
As he flies down
Santa Monica Boulevard

Magdalene driving with shades on.
Tires screaming.
A dwarf with a monkey
Stepped out of a cab.
White hotels, green traffic lights,
Palm trees swaying darkly.

That and nothing else.
Been here and gone.
The scent of the sea.
The palm trees converging
And parting up ahead.

 

[Angeline]

Denis, I knew you'd be happy about Simic. I should have read more of him when you told me to, but I'm making up for it now.

 

[annaswirls]

hehehe really no complaints Ange.... I got a little creature wriggling around in my abdomen, it does not take much to make me squeamish-- and I Really did appreciate your finding and posting the poems! I would still be in the dark if you had not as would most of us.

Why exactly do they feel they need to hunt poems? I would think that poems would rather be gathered, they kind of lie there like nuts and berries, perhaps truffles.... poem snuffling pigs would probably a better way to get them.

But surely I am missing a clever metaphor about how poetry soars like the eagles and gnashes like a shark....hmmmm hops like a cute little fluffy tail bunny? Get out the crossbow!!!?

Thank you, J, for reposting the poems so that you and RM are more comfortable. I certainly didn't intend to make anyone squeamish. I was just enjoying the poems and wanted to share them. Perhaps in my enthusiasm to get attention for them, I offended poets' sensibilities. That is never my intention here.

I like Country Fair the best of his poems I read today, too. There are quite a few more of his poems at the Poem Hunter, but I don't like to link to that site because it has too many pop-ups. If anyone wants to read more and has an effective pop-up crusher, it's a good site for his poetry.

 

[annaswirls]

god this is edgy stuff! how awesome that he is recognized like this.... this stuff really gets me to the core, okay I have to go buy a book....

this is tremendous news!

I think the world of Charles Simic.
He is so deserving of this honor!


More people will get to dig him, now.
That is excellent.



Here ya go, Ange:



4 by Simic
(c) all rights reserved


GHOSTS

It’s Mr. Brown looking much better
Than he did in the morgue.
He’s brought me a huge carp
In a bloodstained newspaper.
What an odd visit.
I haven’t thought of him in years.

Linda is with him and so is Sue.
Two pale and elegant fading memories
Holding each other by the hand.
Even their lipstick is fresh
Despite all the scientific proofs
To the contrary.

Is Linda going to cook the fish?
She turns and gazes in the direction
Of the kitchen while Sue
Continues to watch me mournfully.
I don’t believe any of it,
And still I’m scared stiff.

I know of no way to respond,
So I do nothing.
The windows are open. The air’s thick
With the scent of magnolias.
Drops of evening rain are dripping
From the dark and heavy leaves.
I take a deep breath; I close my eyes.

Dear specters, I don’t even believe
You are here, so how is it
You’re making me comprehend
Things I would rather not know just yet?

It’s the way you stare past me
At what must already be my own ghost,
Before taking your leave,
As unexpectedly as you came in,
Without one of us breaking the silence.



LITTLE UNWRITTEN BOOK

Rocky was a regular guy, a loyal friend.
The trouble was he was only a cat.
Let’s practice, he’d say, and he’d pounce
On his shadow on the wall.
I have to admit, I didn’t learn a thing.
I often sat watching him sleep.
If the birds tried to have a bit of fun in the yard,
He opened one eye.
I even commended him for good behavior.

He was black except for the white gloves he wore.
He played the piano in the parlor
By walking over its keys back and forth.
With exquisite tact he chewed my ear
If I wouldn’t get up from my chair.
Then one day he vanished. I called.
I poked in the bushes.
I walked far into the woods.

The mornings were the hardest. I’d put out
A saucer of milk at the back door.
Peekaboo, a bird called out. She knew.
At one time we had ten farmhands working for us.
I’d make a megaphone with my hands and call.
I still do, though it’s been years.
Rocky, I cry!
And now the bird is silent too.



ROACH MOTEL

The fears of my mother,
And I their projectionist
Cranking the projector.

An evening of noir films.
The electric chair is in it,
And so are the cops.
I’m smoking a cheap cigar,
Playing poker with a scar-faced killer
And a fat woman with a husky voice.
She drinks gin out of a bottle,
Sways her hips to the radio,
Has wedding plans.
At daybreak, a web of twisting shadows
Cast by a ceiling fan.
I have holes in my socks,
An asthmatic wheeze
When I kneel down to pray.

I also have a long tail
And look like a monkey
Because I keep lying all the time.



HOT NIGHT

Long haired Jesus,
Arms outstretched,
Reeling,
In an open yellow convertible
As he flies down
Santa Monica Boulevard

Magdalene driving with shades on.
Tires screaming.
A dwarf with a monkey
Stepped out of a cab.
White hotels, green traffic lights,
Palm trees swaying darkly.

That and nothing else.
Been here and gone.
The scent of the sea.
The palm trees converging
And parting up ahead.

 

[Angeline]

I forgot about your new little one--you have a right to be sqeamish, though I hope that's over for you soon.

Maybe we saw each other in NJ or Bucks. We were there at the same time you know.

I am going to read more Simic. He's edgy but very tender, too. I like his poetry.