Book Read Free

New and Selected Poems

Page 18

by Charles Simic


  My Wife Lifts a Finger to Her Lips

  Night is coming.

  A lone hitchhiker

  Holds up a homemade sign.

  Masked figures

  Around a gambling table?

  No, those are scarecrows in a field.

  At the neighbors’,

  Where they adore a black cat,

  There’s no light yet.

  Dear Lord, can you see

  The fleas run for cover?

  No, he can’t see the fleas.

  Pigeons at Dawn

  Extraordinary efforts are being made

  To hide things from us, my friend.

  Some stay up into the wee hours

  To search their souls.

  Others undress each other in darkened rooms.

  The creaky old elevator

  Took us down to the icy cellar first

  To show us a mop and a bucket

  Before it deigned to ascend again

  With a sigh of exasperation.

  Under the vast, early-dawn sky

  The city lay silent before us.

  Everything on hold:

  Rooftops and water towers,

  Clouds and wisps of white smoke.

  We must be patient, we told ourselves,

  See if the pigeons will coo now

  For the one who comes to her window

  To feed them angel cake,

  All but invisible, but for her slender arm.

  XI

  from THAT LITTLE SOMETHING

  Walking

  I never run into anyone from the old days.

  It’s summer and I’m alone in the city.

  I enter stores, apartment houses, offices

  And find nothing remotely familiar.

  The trees in the park—were they always so big?

  And the birds so hidden, so quiet?

  Where is the bus that passed this way?

  Where are the greengrocers and hairdressers,

  And that schoolhouse with the red fence?

  Miss Harding is probably still at her desk,

  Sighing as she grades papers late into the night.

  The bummer is, I can’t find the street.

  All I can do is make another tour of the neighborhood,

  Hoping I’ll meet someone to show me the way

  And a place to sleep, since I’ve no return ticket

  To wherever it is I came from earlier this evening.

  That Little Something

  for Li-Young Lee

  The likelihood of ever finding it is small.

  It’s like being accosted by a woman

  And asked to help her look for a pearl

  She lost right here in the street.

  She could be making it all up,

  Even her tears, you say to yourself,

  As you search under your feet,

  Thinking, Not in a million years . . .

  It’s one of those summer afternoons

  When one needs a good excuse

  To step out of a cool shade.

  In the meantime, what ever became of her?

  And why, years later, do you still,

  Off and on, cast your eyes to the ground

  As you hurry to some appointment

  Where you are now certain to arrive late?

  Night Clerk in a Roach Hotel

  I’m the furtive inspector of dimly lit corridors,

  Dead lightbulbs and red exit signs,

  Doors that show traces

  Of numerous attempts at violent entry,

  Is that the sound of a maid making a bed at midnight?

  The rustle of counterfeit bills

  Being counted in the wedding suite?

  A fine-tooth comb passing through a head of gray hair?

  Eternity is a mirror and a spider web,

  Someone wrote with lipstick in the elevator.

  I better get the passkey and see for myself.

  I better bring along a book of matches too.

  Waiting for the Sun to Set

  These rows of tall palm trees,

  White villas and white hotels

  Fronting the beach and the sea

  Seem most improbable to me

  Whiling away the afternoon

  In a cane rocking chair

  On a small, secluded veranda,

  Overrun with exotic flowers

  I don’t even know the names of,

  Raised as I was by parents

  Who kept the curtains drawn,

  The lights low, the stove unlit,

  Leaving me as wary as they’d be

  At first seeing oranges in a tree,

  Women running bare-breasted

  Over pink sands in a blue dusk.

  House of Cards

  I miss you winter evenings

  With your dim lights.

  The shut lips of my mother

  And our held breaths

  As we sat at a dining room table.

  Her long, thin fingers

  Stacking the cards,

  Then waiting for them to fall.

  The sound of boots in the street

  Making us still for a moment.

  There’s no more to tell.

  The door is locked,

  And in one red-tinted window,

  A single tree in the yard,

  Stands leafless and misshapen.

  Aunt Dinah Sailed to China

  Bearded ancestors, what became of you?

  Have you gone and hid yourself

  In some cabin in the woods

  To listen to your whiskers grow in peace?

  Clergymen patting chin curtains,

  Soldiers with door knockers,

  Sickly youths with goatees,

  Town drunks proud of their ducktails.

  Cousin Kate, was that a real mustache

  You wore as you stood in church

  Waiting for your bridegroom

  To run up the stairs someday?

  And you, Grandpa, when you shouted at God

  To do something about the world,

  He kept quiet and let the night fall,

  Seeing that your beard was whiter than his.

  To Laziness

  Only you understood

  How little time we are given,

  Not enough to lift a finger.

  The voices on the stairs,

  Thoughts too quick to pursue,

  What do they all matter?

  When eternity beckons.

  The heavy curtains drawn,

  The newspapers unread.

  The keys collecting dust.

  The flies either sluggish or dead.

  The bed like a slow boat,

  With its one listless sail

  Made of cigarette smoke.

  When I did move at last,

  The stores were closed.

  Was it already Sunday?

  The weddings and funerals were over.

  The one or two white clouds left

  Above the dark rooftops,

  Not sure which way to go.

  Listen

  Everything about you,

  My life, is both

  Make-believe and real.

  We are a couple

  Working the night shift

  In a bomb factory.

  “Come quietly,” one says

  To the other

  As he takes her by the hand

  And leads her

  To a rooftop

  Overlooking the city.

  At this hour, if one listens

  Long and hard,

  One can hear a fire engine

  In the distance,

  But not the cries for help,

  Just the silence

  Growing deeper

  At the sight of a small child

  Leaping out of a window

  With its nightclothes on fire.

  Encyclopedia of Horror

  Nobody reads it but the insomniacs.

  How strange to find a child,
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  Slapped by his mother only this morning,

  And the mad homeless woman

  Who squatted to urinate in the street.

  Perhaps they’ve missed someone?

  That smoke-shrouded city after a bombing raid,

  The corpses like cigarette butts

  In a dinner plate overflowing with ashes.

  But no, everyone is here.

  O were you to come, invisible tribunal,

  There’d be too many images to thumb through,

  Too many stories to listen to,

  Like the one about guards playing cards

  After they were done beating their prisoner.

  Dance of the Macabre Mice

  “In the land of turkeys in turkey weather”

  —W. STEVENS

  The president smiles to himself; he loves war

  And another one is coming soon.

  Each day we can feel the merriment mount

  In government offices and TV studios

  As our bombs fall on distant countries.

  The mortuaries are being scrubbed clean.

  Soon they’ll be full of grim young men laid out in rows.

  Already the crowd gurgles with delight

  At the bird-sweet deceits, the deep-throated lies

  About our coming battles and victories.

  Dark-clad sharpshooters on rooftops

  Are scanning the mall for suspicious pigeons,

  Blind men waving their canes in the air,

  Girls with short skirts and ample bosoms

  Reaching deep into their purses for a lighter.

  The Lights Are On Everywhere

  The Emperor must not be told night is coming.

  His armies are chasing shadows,

  Arresting whippoorwills and hermit thrushes

  And setting towns and villages on fire.

  In the capital, they go around confiscating

  Clocks and watches, burning heretics

  And painting the sunrise above the rooftops

  So we can wish each other good morning.

  The rooster brought in chains is crowing,

  The flowers in the garden have been forced to stay open,

  And still yet dark stains spread over the palace floors

  Which no amount of scrubbing will wipe away.

  Memories of the Future

  There are one or two murderers in any crowd.

  They do not suspect their destinies yet.

  Wars are started to make it easy for them

  To kill that woman pushing a baby carriage.

  The animals in the zoo don’t hide their worry.

  They pace their cages or shy away from us

  Listening to something we can’t hear yet:

  The coffin makers hammering their nails.

  The strawberries are already in season

  And so are the scallions and radishes.

  A young man buys roses, another rides

  A bike through the traffic using no hands.

  Old fellow bending over the curb to vomit,

  Betake thee to thy own place of torment.

  The sky at sunset is red with grilling coals.

  A thick glove reaches through the fire after us.

  In the Junk Store

  A small, straw basket

  Full of medals

  From good old wars

  No one recalls.

  I flipped one over

  To feel the pin

  That once pierced

  The hero’s swelling chest.

  Madmen Are Running the World

  Watch it spin like a wheel

  And get stuck in the mud.

  The truck is full of caged chickens

  Squawking about their fate.

  The driver has gone to get help

  In a dive with a live band.

  Myrtle, Phyllis, or whatever they call you girls!

  Get some shuteye while you can.

  In the Afternoon

  The devil likes the chicken coop.

  He lies on a bed of straw

  Watching the snow fall.

  The hens fetch him eggs to suck,

  But he’s not in the mood.

  Cotton Mather is coming tonight,

  Bringing a young witch.

  Her robe already licked by flames,

  Her bare feet turning pink

  While she steps to the woodpile,

  Saying a prayer; her hands

  Like mating butterflies,

  Or are they snowflakes?

  As the smoke rises,

  And the gray afternoon light returns

  With its wild apple tree

  And its blue pickup truck,

  The one with a flat tire,

  And the rusted kitchen stove

  They meant to take to the dump.

  Prophesy

  The last customer will stagger out of the door.

  Cooks will hang their white hats.

  Chairs will climb on the tables.

  A broom will take a lazy stroll into a closet.

  The waiters will kick off their shoes.

  The cat will get a whole trout for dinner.

  The cashier will stop counting receipts,

  Scratch her ass with a pencil and sigh.

  The boss will pour himself another brandy.

  The mirrors will grow tired of potted palms

  And darken slowly the way they always do

  When someone runs off with a roast chicken.

  A Row of High Windows

  Sky’s gravedigger,

  Bird catcher,

  Dark night’s match seller—

  Or whatever you are?

  A book-lined tomb,

  Pots and pans music hall,

  Insomnia’s sick nurse,

  Burglar’s blind date.

  Also you

  Stripper’s darkened stage

  Right next to a holy martyr

  Being flayed by the setting sun.

  Secret History

  Of the light in my room:

  Its mood swings,

  Dark-morning glooms,

  Summer ecstasies.

  Spider on the wall,

  Lamp burning late,

  Shoes left by the bed,

  I’m your humble scribe.

  Dust balls, simple souls

  Conferring in the corner.

  The pearl earring she lost,

  Still to be found.

  Silence of falling snow,

  Night vanishing without trace,

  Only to return.

  I’m your humble scribe.

  Wire Hangers

  All they need

  Is one little red dress

  To start swaying

  In that empty closet

  For the rest of them

  To nudge each other,

  Clicking like knitting needles

  Or disapproving tongues.

  Labor and Capital

  The softness of this motel bed

  On which we made love

  Demonstrates to me in an impressive manner

  The superiority of capitalism.

  At the mattress factory, I imagine,

  The employees are happy today.

  It’s Sunday and they are working

  Extra hours, like us, for no pay.

  Still, the way you open your legs

  And reach for me with your hand

  Makes me think of the Revolution,

  Red banners, crowd charging.

  Someone stepping on a soapbox

  As the flames engulf the palace,

  And the old prince in full view

  Steps to his death from a balcony.

  The Bather

  Where the path to the lake twists

  Out of sight, a puff of dust,

  The kind bare feet make running.

  A low branch heavy with leaves

  Swaying momentarily

  In the dense and somber shade.

  A late bat
her disrobing for a dip,

  Pinned hair coming undone soon to float

  As she flips on her back letting

  The sleepy current take her

  Over the dark water to where the sky

  Opens wide, the night blurring

  Her nakedness, the silence thick,

  Treetops like charred paper edges,

  Even the insects oddly reclusive,

  The rare breath of wind in the leaves

  Fooling me to look once again,

  Until the chill made me rise and go in.

 

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