Charles Simic (1938 / Belgrade)
Biography of Charles Simic
- Night Music -new-
- So Early in the Morning -new-
- Against Whatever It Is That's Encroachin... -new-
- Evening Walk -new-
- Labor and Capital -new-
- The Empress -new-
- The Writings of the Mystics -new-
- My Weariness of Epic Proportions -new-
- A Letter -new-
- This Morning -new-
- Classic Ballroom Dances -new-
- Eastern European Cooking -new-
- In the Library -new-
- Stone -new-
Charles Simic Poems
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.
Eyes Fastened With Pins
How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone
Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile And spit out the teeth.
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.
Where it says snow read teeth-marks of a virgin Where it says knife read you passed through my bones
for Hayden Carruth If you didn't see the six-legged dog, It doesn't matter.
I liked my little hole, Its window facing a brick wall. Next door there was a piano. A few evenings a month
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.
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.
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
The mail truck goes down the coast Carrying a single letter. At the end of a long pier The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then
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.
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,
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.
Grandma laughing on her deathbed.
Eternity, the quiet one, listening in.
Like moths around an oil lamp we were.
Like ragdolls tucked away in the attic.
In walked a cat with a mouthful of feathers.
(How about that?)