a Serbian-American poet, and was co-Poetry Editor of the Paris Review. He was appointed the fifteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 2007. more »
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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.
Where it says snow read teeth-marks of a virgin Where it says knife read you passed through my bones
Eyes Fastened With Pins
How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone
I liked my little hole, Its window facing a brick wall. Next door there was a piano. A few evenings a month
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.
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.
Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile And spit out the teeth.
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.
for Hayden Carruth If you didn't see the six-legged dog, It doesn't matter.
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
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,
Read Your Fate
A world's disappearing. Little street, You were too narrow, Too much in the shade already.
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.
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.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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 ...