Come Closer and Listen
Page 2
A scene from their neighbor’s life,
Already remote and unintelligible,
As if he had been a wisp of smoke
That lingered briefly over a rooftop
As our eyes were turned elsewhere
In this land grown numb from its wars,
Forgoing lament and public display of grief,
Save for this dim figure stepping forth
With arms extended as she asks God
For some stage magic to make her boy rise
From where he lies and stroll home with them.
You’ll Be Pleased with Our Product
A cage big enough to kennel a man
You wish to remind he’s no better
Than a stray dog waiting his turn
To be put to death by the ASPCA.
So that you may rest easy, our cages
Are built with your safety in mind
And are strong enough to withstand
Outbreaks of rage and suicidal despair.
Light Sleeper
You were a witness
To so many crimes
In your lifetime, my friend,
No wonder most nights
You can be found
Testifying at a trial
In some country
Whose language
You don’t even speak.
The proceedings
Brutally slow
With more and more corpses
Being brought in
Their ghastly wounds
As you saw them
With your own eyes
And in photographs.
You’ll be asked
To return tomorrow,
So once more
You’ll stagger out of bed
And grope your way
Toward the silent
Crowded courtroom
Already in session
Just down the hall.
Monsters
After Ovid
For once, the father of the gods,
Thoroughly pissed
By the cheating and lying Cercopes
And their murderous ways,
Wanted to change them
Into screeching monkeys,
But hesitated, grew uncertain,
Considered jackals instead,
Venomous snakes, thinking perhaps
A greasy rat in the sewer
Would fit the type better, in fact:
Going from A to Z in the Bestiary
He couldn’t find a single species
To match the vast capacity for evil
Of these awful creatures,
Not even among deadly spiders
And graveyard worms
Who are blameless for their conduct.
In My Church
You are the Lord of the broken,
The ones crucified and bled
During their long night of torture
In a cellar of some prison.
You inspect the instruments
Of cruelty and touch them
In awe at the pride these men
Take in their line of work,
While their wives and mothers
Rise to attend the early Mass,
Where you too must now hurry
Before they find your broken limbs
And face missing from the cross,
One or two candles still burning
In your terrifying absence
Under the dark and majestic dome.
Among My Late Visitors
There is also a cow
Whose eyes the soldiers
Took out with a knife
And lit straw under its tail
So it would run blind
Over a minefield
And thereafter into my head
From time to time
O Great Starry Sky
Where our thoughts go
Like door-to-door Bible salesmen,
Only to have the doors
Slammed into their faces.
At Giubbe Rosse in Florence
For Charles and Holly Wright
He’s a wise man who forgoes the future
And savors the here and now
Bent over a bowl of gnocchi
In this joint where at lunchtime
We all order the same steaming dish
Of which every creamy spoonful
Deserves to be licked thoroughly.
Newspapers fallen on the floor
With their screaming headlines
Trampled over by muddy shoes.
The last long sip of wine making
Someone thoughtful, someone else
Smile to themselves as they rise
Searching their pockets for a tip.
Tugboat
Bringing the summer night in
Over the calm and purple sea
As if it were a barge filled with coal.
The rows of widow’s walks
Along the rocky coast
Stand white and deserted.
The long-suffering wives
Of whaling ship captains
Lie buried in family graveyards
Dotting the darkening hills.
The bloodshot eye of the setting sun
Keeping watch for them.
The Last Lesson
It will be about nothing.
Not about love or God,
But about nothing.
You’ll be like a new kid in school
Afraid to look at the teacher
While struggling to understand
What they are saying
About this here nothing
III
Meditation in the Gutter
Of things beautiful.
Things fleeting.
Like the scent of summer night
At the corner of Christopher and Bleecker
Silent and deserted
As I stood leaning
Against a mailbox
Where years ago
I dropped a love letter
And never heard back.
When a cat walked up to me,
One of its paws raised
As if to call my attention
To the cunning threads
By which our lives are rigged.
Strange Sweetness
Happy are those who pass their waking hours
Basking in that strange sweetness
That takes away every care in the world,
Except the one that concerns their love
For some man or woman who does not suspect
They are being loved by a stranger,
While they themselves go on brooding
Regarding another clueless person,
The length of an endless summer
Of sweltering days and muggy nights,
When beyond dark open windows,
Many are sleeping naked, alone or in pairs.
My Little Heaven
Why the wrought-iron fence
With nasty-looking spikes
And four padlocks and a chain
Securing the heavy gate?
I stop by from time to time,
To check if it’s unlocked
And peek through the bars
At rows of pretty flowers
And its tree-lined promenade
Streaked with sunlight.
One little birdie hopping on it,
Tickled pink about something.
Imponderabilia
I tie myself into knots
Over you, baby.
Sailor’s tricky knots
Throughout the night,
Hangman’s big one
In dawn’s early light.
Plonk, said the leaky gutter
To the fat bucket
Pining down below.
Bed Music
Our love was new
But our bedsprings were old.
On the floor below
They stopped eating
With forks in the air,
> While we went on
Playing our favorites:
“Shake It Baby,”
“Slow Boogie,”
“Shout, Sister, Shout.”
That was the limit!
They called the cops.
Did you bring beer?
We asked the men in blue
As they broke down the door.
The Henhouse Is on Fire
Castles in the air were his thing.
Seen in Morocco wearing a fez--
Or was it on the North Pole?
Giving a girl a ride in a dogsled.
All hell broke loose back home
After his wife found out,
“The henhouse is on fire”
He told his drinking buddies,
Popping up here and there,
Consulting a fortune-teller in Naples,
Waving from a train in Brazil
And vanishing like the devil himself
An early explorer claimed to have seen
Playing the flute and dancing
On some rock out in the Pacific
No ship afterwards could find again.
The Many Lauras
Alas, I burn and am not believed.
—PETRARCH
I loved three different Lauras,
At one time or another,
They laughed at everything I said,
While I shed tears in secret.
Even in church praying they’d smile
At the memory of me,
Even in the arms of another man
They’d hide their grins,
Or so I imagined, because I never
Laid my eyes on them again.
It was a huge city where one got lost
Easily as they must’ve done too.
Petrarch, you only loved one Laura
And wrote hundreds of poems to her.
I loved three, but only wrote one
And it’s not even a good one.
The American Dream
When Arlene powders her nose
In a mirror on her dresser
And spying her naked breasts
Slips the powder puff lower
To touch one of her nipples,
While some preacher on TV
Asks his congregation to pray
And to send him money today,
This is called The American Dream.
Among the Ruins
You press your nose, old man,
Against a vacant storefront
Like a fish to a porthole of a ship
Rusting on the sea bottom,
Expecting a ghost or two to follow
After you in the deserted street,
As you slip into a movie theater,
Take a seat among its ruins,
Like a much-decorated soldier
In a mausoleum for the war dead,
Before heading for the train station,
Its tower rising like a biblical curse
Amid walls covered with graffiti,
To meet your dapper young father
Coming home on the evening train.
The Judgment
An early ray of light too bright
For any human eye to bear,
As if the night was cut by a knife
About to strike from a rooftop
At the sprawling city below,
Split up couples in doorways,
And force others in their beds
To cover their nakedness,
Before accosting some fellow
Darting out of a small hotel,
Making him stop dead in his tracks
As if he just heard a judge
Pronounce his sentence,
Startling the mannequins in store windows
Along the avenue, wide awake.
Birds of a Feather
I like the black keys better
I like the lights turned down low
I like women who drink alone
While I hunch over the piano
Looking for all the pretty notes
Truck Stop
Death, the pale thief
Who works alone,
Sipping coffee in the rear booth
Of an all-night diner,
While hatching plans
How to rob one of these truckers
Of his life tonight
As he closes his eyes
Over the steering wheel,
Remembering a pretty hitchhiker
Wave goodbye to him
And grow smaller and smaller
In his rearview mirror
Along with fleeing lights.
That Young Fellow
Who befriended a small pebble
He found in his sneaker
One hot summer night,
And held on to it tightly
As he walked the crowded streets
Dragging his sore foot
Past lightly clad men and women
Partying on the sidewalk,
Save for him, slow and in pain
And keen to remain invisible
Till Jesus comes to judge us all,
Unless some giddy miss
Elects to give him a kiss now.
Hey, Loudmouth
Like a suicide
Dangling by one hand
From a parapet,
This spider talks to himself,
Cusses too,
As he sways to and fro
By a thread,
His voice growing louder
In my head
Lying wide awake
In this big old bed.
It’s a Day like Any Other
The old couple are weeding
Side by side in the garden,
Their dog right behind them
Wagging his tail eager to help.
Living in complete ignorance
Of what goes on in the world
Is the well-guarded secret
Of their lifelong happiness.
Sleepwalkers in love, watch them
Reach for each other’s hand
When their work is done,
Pure as angels and proud as devils.
IV
The Hand That Rocks the Cradle
Time--that murderer
No one has caught yet
Sunday Service
The rooster wears a bishop’s miter
While four hens trail after him
Clucking and nodding their heads
In approval of his morning’s sermon.
The black and white mutt in the yard
Has found religion too
Barking at a strange cat up in a tree
As if it were the devil himself.
Descartes, I hear, did his best philosophizing
By lazing in bed past noon.
Not me! I’m on my way to the dump,
Waving to neighbors going to church.
Charmed Circle
This banquet
Of golden cake crumbs
Strewn over our breakfast table
Could feed
A flock of wild birds
We ought to
Shake the tablecloth
Out in the yard
And go back to bed
Leaving them
To chirp about their good luck
Not even minding
To take flight
Every time your mother
Sticks a mop
Out of the kitchen door
And gives
Its tousled head a shake
Haystack
Can you find in there
The straw that broke
Your mother’s back?
Birds at Dusk
For Adam Zagajewski
The sunset over the lake
Made one of them squawk
And cause others to join
In comparable distress.
“Even birds detest poetry,”
I remember someone saying
Just as they fell qu
iet
While shadows lengthened on the water
Smothering the fires.
But though we waited
With bated breath
They voiced no further complaints
From their nests.
Sit Tight
When the old clock
That woke the dead
With its loud tick finally fell silent,
Eternity moved in.
A mirror looked toward the door
With eyes of a dog
Pleading to be taken
Out for a long walk.
Late Night Quiz
Is Charles Simic afraid of death?
Yes, Charles Simic fears death.
Does he pray to the Lord above?
No, he fools around with his wife.
His conscience, does it bother him much?
It drops in for a chat now and then.
Is he ready to meet his Maker?
As much as a squirrel crossing the road.
Like an empty beer can being kicked
By some youth high as a kite
Out of one dark street into another
He stumbles and falls in the meantime.
Dice
Watch them grapple with their fate
as they hop and roll along
casting all caution to the wind
to beat the odds
or be retrieved by a hand
held firmly between
its thumb and forefinger
charmed and prayed over
to find themselves airborne
like two giddy lovers
laughing their heads off
as they leap naked into bed
and wake in clover afterwards
or in a roadside ditch
battered and gray like two little toes
sticking out of an old sneaker
itching to try their luck again
and end up--if they must--
as cat’s new toy
gravedigger’s gift to his little boy
Is That You?
On Grim Reaper’s knee
Bouncing like a baby