Come Closer and Listen Read online

  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.

  Hide-and-Seek

  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 peeks inside a tattered Bible

  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,