Biography of Charles Simic
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.
I liked my little hole, Its window facing a brick wall. Next door there was a piano. A few evenings a month
Eyes Fastened With Pins
How much death works, No one knows what a long Day he puts in. The little Wife always alone
Where it says snow read teeth-marks of a virgin Where it says knife read you passed through my bones
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.
for Hayden Carruth If you didn't see the six-legged dog, It doesn't matter.
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.
Read Your Fate
A world's disappearing. Little street, You were too narrow, Too much in the shade already.
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
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,
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.
The Partial Explanation
Seems like a long time Since the waiter took my order. Grimy little luncheonette, The snow falling outside.
Fingers in an overcoat pocket. Fingers sticking out of a black leather glove. The nails chewed raw. One play is called "Thieves' Market," another "Night in a Dime Museum." The fingers when they strip are like bewitching nude bathers or the fake wooden limbs in a cripple factory. No one ever sees the play: you put your hand in somebody else's pocket