Charles Simic: White (English)

 
A New Version: 1980 

                What is that little black thing I see there 
                    in the white? 
                                         Walt Whitman 


One 

Out of poverty 
To begin again:  

With the color of the bride 
And that of blindness, 

Touch what I can 
Of the quick, 

Speak and then wait, 
As if this light 

Will continue to linger 
On the threshold. 



All that is near, 
I no longer give it a name. 

Once a stone hard of hearing, 
Once sharpened into a knife... 

Now only a chill 
Slipping through. 

Enough glow to kneel by and ask 
To be tied to its tail 

When it goes marrying 
Its cousins, the stars. 



Is it a cloud? 
If it's a cloud it will move on. 

The true shape of this thought, 
Migrant, waning. 

Something seeks someone, 
It bears him a gift 

Of himself, a bit 
Of snow to taste, 

Glimpse of his own nakedness 
By which to imagine the face. 



On a late afternoon of snow 
In a dim badly-aired grocery, 

Where a door has just rung 
With a short, shrill echo, 

A little boy hands the old, 
Hard-faced woman 

Bending low over the counter, 
A shiny nickel for a cupcake. 

Now only that shine, now 
Only that lull abides. 



That your gaze 
Be merciful, 

Sister, bride 
Of my first hopeless insomnia. 

Kind nurse, show me 
The place of salves. 

Teach me the song 
That makes a man rise 

His glass at dusk 
Until a star dances in it. 



Who are you?  Are you anybody 
A moonrock would recognize? 

There are words I need. 
They are not near men. 

I went searching. 
Is this a deathmarch? 

You bend me, bend me, 
Oh toward what flower! 

Little-known vowel, 
Noose big for us all. 



As strange as a shepherd 
In the Arctic Circle. 

Someone like Bo-peep. 
All his sheep are white 

And he can't get any sleep 
Over lost sheep. 

And he's got a flute 
Which says Bo-peep, 

Which says Poor boy, 
Take care of your snow-sheep. 

                        to A.S. Hamilton 



Then all's well and white, 
And no more than white. 

Illinois snowbound. 
Indiana with one bare tree. 

Michigan a storm-cloud. 
Wisconsin empty of men. 

There's a trap on the ice 
Laid there centuries ago. 

The bait is still fresh. 
The metal glitters as the night descends. 



Woe, woe, it sings from the bough. 
Our Lady, etc... 

You had me hoodwinked. 
I see your brand new claws. 

Praying, what do I betray 
By desiring your purity? 

There are old men and women, 
All bandaged up, waiting 

At the spiked, wrought-iron gate 
Of the Great Eye and Ear Infirmery. 



We haven't gone far... 
Fear lives there too. 

Five ears of my fingertips 
Against the white page. 

What do you hear? 
We hear holy nothing 

Blindfolding itself. 
It touched you once, twice, 

And tore like a stitch 
Out of a new wound. 



Two 

What are you up to son of a gun? 
I roast on my heart's dark side. 

What do you use as a skewer sweetheart? 
I use my own crooked backbone. 

What do you salt yourself with loverboy? 
I grind the words out of my spittle. 

And how will you know when you're done chump? 
When the half-moons on my fingernails set. 

With what knife will you carve yourself smartass? 
The one I hide in my tongue's black boot. 



Well, you can't call me a wrestler 
If my own dead weight has me pinned down. 

Well, you can't call me a cook 
If the pot's got me under its cover. 

Well, you can't call me a king 
if the flies hang their hats in my mouth. 

Well, you can't call me smart, 
When the rain's falling my cup's in the cupboard. 

Nor can you call me a saint, 
If I didn't err, there wouldn't be these smudges. 



One has to manage as best as one can. 
The poppies ate the sunset for supper. 

One has to manage as best as one can. 
Who stole my blue thread, the one 

I tied around my pinky to remember? 
One has to manage as best as one can. 

The flea I was standing on, jumped. 
One has to manage as best as one can. 

I think my head went out for a walk. 
One has to manage as best as one can. 



This is breath, only breath, 
Think it over midnight! 

A fly weighs twice as much. 
The struck match nods as it passes, 

But when I shout, 
Its true name sticks in my throat. 

It has to be cold 
So the breath turns white, 

And then mother, who's fast enough 
To write his life on it? 



A song in prison 
And for prisoners, 

Made of what the condemned 
Have hidden from the jailers. 

White--let me step aside 
So that the future may see you, 

For when this sheet is blown away, 
What else is left 

But to set the food on the table, 
To cut oneself a slice of bread? 



In an unknown year 
Of an algebraic century, 

An obscure widow 
Wrapped in the colors of widowhood, 

Met a true-blue orphan 
On an indeterminate street-corner. 

She offered him 
A tiny sugar cube 

In the hand so wizened 
All the lines said: fate. 



Do you take this line 
Stretching to infinity? 

I take this chipped tooth 
On which to cut it in half. 

Do you take this circle 
Bounded by a single curved line? 

I take this breath 
That it cannot capture. 

Then you may kiss the spot 
Where her bridal train last rustled. 



Winter can come now, 
The earth narrow to a ditch-- 

And the sky with its castles and stone lions 
Above the empty plains. 

The snow can fall... 
What other perennials would you plant, 

My prodigals, my explorers 
Tossing and turning in the dark 

For those remote, finely honed bees, 
The December stars? 



Had to get through me elsewhere. 
Woe to bone 

That stood in their way. 
Woe to each morsel of flesh. 

White ants 
In a white anthill. 

The rustle of their many feet 
Scurrying--tiptoing too. 

Gravedigger ants. 
Village-idiot ants. 



This is the last summoning. 
Solitude--as in the beginning. 

A zero burped by a bigger zero-- 
It's an awful licking I got. 

And fear--that dead letter office. 
And doubt--that Chinese shadow play. 

Does anyone still say a prayer 
Before going to bed? 

White sleeplessness. 
No one knows its weight. 



What The White Had To Say 

                For how could anything white be distinct 
                from or divided from whiteness? 
                                Meister Eckhart 

                                 
Because I am the bullet 
That has gone through everyone already, 
I thought of you long before you thought of me. 
Each one of you still keeps a blood-stained handkerchief 
In which to swaddle me, but it stays empty 
And even the wind won't remain in it long. 
Cleverly you've invented name after name for me, 
Mixed the riddles, garbled the proverbs, 
Shook you loaded dice in a tin cup, 
But I do not answer back even to your curses, 
For I am nearer to you than your breath. 
One sun shines on us both through a crack in the roof. 
A spoon brings me through the window at dawn. 
A plate shows me off to the four walls 
While with my tail I swing at the flies. 
But there's no tail and the flies are your thoughts. 
Steadily, patiently I life your arms. 
I arrange them in the posture of someone drowning, 
And yet the sea in which you are sinking, 
And even this night above it, is myself. 



Because I am the bullet 
That has baptized each one of your senses, 
Poems are made of our lusty wedding nights... 
The joy of words as they are written. 
The ear that got up at four in the morning 
To hear the grass grow inside a word. 
Still, the most beautiful riddle has no answer. 
I am the emptiness that tucks you in like a 
   mockingbird's nest, 
The fingernail that scratched on your sleep's 
   blackboard. 
Take a letter: From cloud to onion. 
Say: There was never any real choice. 
One gaunt shadowy mother wiped our asses, 
The same old orphanage taught us loneliness. 
Street-organ full of blue notes, 
I am the monkey dancing to your grinding-- 
And still you are afraid-and so, 
It's as if we had not budged from the beginning. 
Time slopes.  We are falling head over heels 
At the speed of night.  That milk tooth 
You left under the pillow, it's grinning. 

                                1970-1980 



This currently out-of-print edition: 
Copyright ©1980 Logbridge-Rhodes, Inc. 

An earlier version of White was first published  
by New Rivers Press in 1972.

Charles Simic: Blanc (French)

 
Une Nouvelle Version: 1980 

                Quelle est cette petite chose noire que je vois là dans le blanc ? 
Walt Whitman 


Un 

Hors de la pauvreté à commencer encore:  

Avec la couleur de la jeune mariée et de celle de la cécité, 

Contact ce qui je bidon du rapide, 

Parler et puis attendre, comme si cette lumière 

Continuera à s'attarder sur le seuil. 



Tout ce qui est près, je ne lui donne plus un nom. 

Une fois une pierre dur de l'audition, une fois affilé dans un 
couteau 

Maintenant seulement un froid glissant à travers. 

Assez de lueur à se mettre à genoux près et demander à être 
attaché à sa queue 

Quand elle va épouser ses cousins, les étoiles. 



Est-ce un nuage ? Si c'est un nuage il passera. 

La forme vraie de cette pensée, migrant, s'affaiblissant. 

Quelque chose cherche quelqu'un, il le soutient un cadeau 

De se, un peu de neige à goûter, 

Aperçu de sa propre nudité par lequel pour imaginer le visage. 



Un après-midi en retard de neige dans une faible épicerie 
mauvais-aérée, 

Là où une porte a l'échelon juste avec un écho court et 
aigu, 

Un petit garçon remet la vieille, surfacée dur femme 

Se pliant bas au-dessus du compteur, nickel brillant de A pour un 
petit gâteau. 

Maintenant seulement cet éclat, maintenant seulement cette accalmie 
demeure. 



Que votre regard fixe soit compatissant, 

Soeur, jeune mariée de ma première insomnie désespérée. 

L'infirmière aimable, me montrent l'endroit des onguents. 

m'enseigner la chanson qui incite un homme à se lever 

Son verre au crépuscule jusqu'à une étoile danse dans lui. 



Qui es-tu ? Es-tu que quelqu'un le moonrock de A reconnaîtrait-il ? 

Il y a des mots que j'ai besoin. Ils ne sont pas près des hommes. 

Je suis allé rechercher. Est-ce que c'est par deathmarch ? 

Tu me plies, me plies, OH vers quelle fleur ! 

Voyelle peu connue, Noose grand pour nous tous. 



Aussi étrange qu'un berger en cercle arctique. 

Quelqu'un aiment le Bo-piaulement. Tous ses moutons sont 
blancs 

Et il ne peut obtenir aucun moutons perdus par excédent de sommeil. 

Et il a une cannelure qui indique le Bo-piaulement, 

Ce qui indique le pauvre garçon, soin de prise de vos neige-moutons. 

                        à A.S. Hamilton 



Alors tous jaillissent et blanc, et pas plus que le blanc. 

Snowbound de l'Illinois. L'Indiana avec un arbre nu. 

Le Michigan un donner l'assaut à-cloud. Le Wisconsin vide des hommes. 

Il y a un piège sur la glace étendue là il y a des siècles. 

L'amorce est encore fraîche. Les scintillements en métal comme nuit 
descend. 



Ennui, ennui, elle chante de la branche. Notre Madame, 
etc..... 

Tu m'as fait tromper. Je vois vos griffes nouvelles. 

Est-ce que prière, que je trahis en désirant votre pureté ? 

Il y a de vieux hommes et femmes, tout bandées vers le haut, 
attendant 

À la porte pointues, de travaillé-fer du grand oeil et à l'oreille 
Infirmery. 



Nous ne sommes pas allés loin La crainte vit là aussi. 

Cinq oreilles de mes bouts du doigt contre le page blanc. 

Qu'entends-tu ? Nous n'entendons saint rien 

Se bander les yeux. Il t'a touché par le passé, deux fois, 

Et a déchiré comme un point hors d'une nouvelle blessure. 



Deux 

Qu'es-tu jusqu'au fils d'un pistolet ? Je rôtis du côté en noir de 
mon coeur. 

Qu'emploies-tu en tant qu'amoureux de brochette ? J'utilise ma propre 
épine dorsale tordue. 

Que te sales-tu avec loverboy ? Je rectifie les mots hors de ma 
salive. 

Et comment sauras-tu quand tu es idiot fait ? Quand les moitié-lunes 
sur mes ongles ont placé. 

Avec quel couteau te découperas-tu des smartass ? Celui que je me 
cache dans la botte noire de ma langue. 



Bien, tu ne peus pas m'appeler un lutteur si mon propre poids mort m'a 
goupillé vers le bas. 

Bien, tu ne peus pas m'appeler un cuisinier si le pot obtenu me sous 
sa couverture. 

Bien, tu ne peus pas m'appeler un roi si les mouches accrochent leurs 
chapeaux dans ma bouche. 

Bien, tu ne peus pas m'appeler futé, quand la pluie tombant ma tasse 
dans le compartiment. 

Ni peus tu m'appeler que un saint, si je n'errais pas, là ne serait 
pas ces bavures. 



On doit contrôler aussi bien que un bidon. Les pavots ont mangé le 
coucher du soleil pour le dîner. 

On doit contrôler aussi bien que un bidon. Qui a volé mon fil bleu, 
celui 

J'ai attaché autour de mon pinky pour me rappeler ? On doit 
contrôler aussi bien que un bidon. 

La puce que je me tenais dessus, sauté. On doit contrôler aussi bien 
que un bidon. 

Je pense que ma tête est sortie pour une promenade. On doit 
contrôler aussi bien que un bidon. 



C'est souffle, seulement souffle, le pensent minuit d'excédent ! 

Une mouche pèse deux fois plus. L'allumette frappée incline la tête 
pendant qu'elle passe, 

Mais quand je crie, ses véritables bâtons nommés dans ma gorge. 

Ce doit être froid ainsi le blanc de tours de souffle, 

Et enfanter alors, qui a assez rapidement pour écrire sa vie 
là-dessus ? 



Une chanson en prison et pour des prisonniers, 

Fait de ce que condamnés ont caché des geôliers. 

Blanc -- me laisser faire un pas de côté de sorte que le futur 
puisse te voir, 

Pour quand cette feuille est soufflée partie, quoi encore est 
laissé 

Mais pour placer la nourriture sur la table, pour se couper une 
tranche de pain ? 



En année inconnue d'un siècle algébrique, 

Une veuve obscure enveloppée dans les couleurs du veuvage, 

A rencontré un orphelin vrai-bleu sur un rue-coin indéterminé. 

Elle lui a offert A cube minuscule en sucre 

Dans la main wizened ainsi toutes les lignes dites: destin. 



Prends-tu cette ligne étirage à l'infini ? 

Je prends cette dent ébréchée sur laquelle pour la couper dans la 
moitié. 

Prends-tu ce cercle lié par une ligne incurvée simple ? 

Je prends ce souffle qu'elle ne peut pas capturer. 

Alors tu peus embrasser la tache où son train nuptiale a pour la 
dernière fois brui. 



L'hiver peut venir maintenant, l'étroit de la terre à un fossé 
-- 

Et le ciel avec ses châteaux et lions de pierre au-dessus des plaines 
vides. 

La neige peut tomber Ce que d'autres pluriannuels tu 
planteraient, 

Mes prodigals, mes explorateurs jetant et tournant en l'air dans 
l'obscurité 

Pour des ces extérieur, abeilles finement rectifiées, les étoiles 
de décembre ? 



A dû obtenir par moi ailleurs. Ennui à l'os 

Cela s'est tenu de leur manière. Ennui à chaque morceau de chair. 

Fourmis blanches dans une fourmilère blanche. 

Le bruissement de leurs beaucoup de pieds Scurrying -- tiptoing aussi. 

Fourmis de Gravedigger. fourmis d'Village-idiot. 



C'est la dernière convocation. Solitude -- comme dans le 
commencement. 

Un zéro burped par un plus grand zéro -- il est terrible un 
lèchement j'a obtenu. 

Et crainte -- que bureau de lettre morte. Et doute -- qui jeu chinois 
d'ombre. 

Est-ce que n'importe qui distillateur indique une prière avant 
d'aller au lit ? 

Insomnie blanche. Personne ne connaît son poids. 



Ce que Le Blanc A dû Indiquer 

                Est-ce que pour comment quelque chose blanc a pu être distinct de ou 
divisé de la blancheur ? Meister Eckhart 

                                 
Puisque je suis la balle qui est déjà passée par chacun, j'ai 
pensé à toi longtemps avant toi ai pensé à moi. Chacun de toi 
garde toujours un mouchoir sang-souillé dans lequel au swaddle je, 
mais elle reste vide et même le vent ne restera pas dans elle 
longtemps. Abilement tu as inventé le nom après le nom pour moi, 
mélangé les énigmes, déformées les proverbes, t'as secoué as 
chargé des matrices dans une tasse de bidon, mais je ne réponds pas 
en arrière pour même à vos malédictions, parce que je suis plus 
proche de toi que votre souffle. L'un soleil brille sur nous tous les 
deux par une fente dans le toit. Une cuillère m'apporte par la 
fenêtre à l'aube. Un plat me montre au loin aux quatre murs tandis 
qu'avec ma queue je balance aux mouches. Mais il n'y a aucune queue et 
les mouches sont vos pensées. Solidement, patiemment la vie de I vos 
bras. J'arrange eux dans le maintien de quelqu'un qui se noie, mais la 
mer en laquelle tu descends, et même cette nuit au-dessus d'elle, est 
moi-même. 



Puisque je suis la balle qui a baptisé chacun de vos sens, des 
poésies sont faites de nos nuits vigoureuses de mariage La joie 
des mots comme elles sont écrites. L'oreille qui s'est levée à 
quatre le matin pour entendre l'herbe se développer à l'intérieur 
d'un mot. Toujours, l'énigme la plus belle n'a aucune réponse. Je 
suis le vide qui des replis tu dedans comme le nid d'un moqueur, 
l'ongle qui a rayé sur le tableau noir de votre sommeil. Prendre une 
lettre: Du nuage à l'oignon. Parole: Il n'y avait jamais n'importe 
quel vrai choix. Une mère ombragée décharnée a essuyé nos ânes, 
le même vieil orphelinat nous a enseigné la solitude. Rue-organe 
complètement des notes bleues, je suis le singe dansant à votre 
meulage -- et tu es toujours effrayé-et ainsi, il est comme si nous 
n'avions pas bougé du commencement. Pentes de temps. Nous sommes les 
talons finis en chute de tête à la vitesse de la nuit. Que dent de 
lait que tu as laissée sous l'oreiller, il grimace. 

                                1970-1980 



Cette édition actuellement épuisée: Copyright ©1980 
Logbridge-Rhodes, Inc.. 

Une version plus tôt de blanc a été éditée la première fois par 
New Rivers enfoncent 1972.

Charles Simic: Weiß (German)

 
Eine Neue Version: 1980 

                Was ist diese kleine schwarze Sache, die ich dort in das Weiß sehe? 
Walt Whitman 


Ein 

Aus der Armut heraus, zum wieder anzufangen:  

Mit der Farbe der Braut und der deren von Blindheit, 

Note was ich Dose vom schnellen, 

Sprechen und dann warten, als ob dieses Licht 

Fährt fort, auf der Schwelle zurückzubleiben. 



Alles, das nahe ist, gebe ich ihm einen Namen nicht mehr. 

Einmal ein Stein stark der Hörfähigkeit, einmal geschärft in ein 
Messer 

Jetzt nur ein Schauer, der durch gleitet. 

Genügend Glühen, zum vorbei zu knien und zu bitten, an sein 
Endstück gebunden zu werden 

Wenn es geht, seine Vetter zu heiraten, die Sterne. 



Ist es eine Wolke? Wenn es eine Wolke ist, bewegt es an. 

Die zutreffende Form dieses Gedankens, Wanderer, nehmend ab. 

Etwas sucht jemand, es trägt ihn ein Geschenk 

Von ein wenig Schnee zum zu schmecken, 

Blick durch den seiner eigenen Nacktheit, zum sich des Gesichtes 
vorzustellen. 



An einem späten Nachmittag des Schnees in einem schwachen 
schlecht-gelüfteten Lebensmittelgeschäft, 

Wo eine Tür gerechten Rung mit einem kurzen, schrillen Echo 
hat, 

Ein kleiner Junge übergibt die alte, bestückte Frau 

Über den Kostenzähler niedrig verbiegen, A glänzendes Nickel für 
einen kleinen Kuchen. 

Jetzt nur dieser Shine, jetzt nur diese Ruhepause bleibt. 



Daß Ihr Anstarren barmherzig ist, 

Schwester, Braut meiner ersten hoffnungslosen Schlaflosigkeit. 

Freundliche Krankenschwester, zeigen mir den Ort von salves. 

Mir das Lied beibringen, das einen Mann steigen läßt 

Sein Glas an der Dämmerung bis einen Stern tanzt in es. 



Wer sind Sie? Sind Sie, die jemand, würde A moonrock erkennen? 

Es gibt Wörter, die ich benötige. Sie sind nicht nahe Männern. 

Ich ging zu suchen. Ist dieses ein deathmarch? 

Sie verbiegen mich, verbiegen mich, OH- in Richtung zu, welcher Blume! 

Wenig bekannter Vokal, Schleife groß für uns alle. 



So merkwürdig wie ein Schäferhund im nördlichen Polarkreise. 

Jemand mögen Bo-Blick. Alle seine Schafe sind weiß 

Und er kann keine verlorenen Schafe des Schlafes erhalten Überschuß. 

Und er hat eine Flöte, die Bo-Blick sagt, 

Welches armen Jungen sagt, Nehmenobacht Ihrer Schnee-Schafe. 

                        zu A.S. Hamilton 



Dann quellen aller und weiß und nicht mehr als Weiß hervor. 

Illinois snowbound. Indiana mit einem bloßen Baum. 

Michigan eine Sturm-Wolke. Wisconsin leer von den Männern. 

Vor es gibt eine Falle auf dem Eis, das dort Jahrhunderten gelegt 
wird. 

Der Köder ist noch frisch. Das Metallfunkeln als die Nacht steigt ab. 



Elend, Elend, singt sie vom Ast. Unsere Dame, usw.... 

Sie ließen mich hinters Licht führen. Ich sehe Ihre nagelneuen 
Greifer. 

Beten, was verrate ich, indem ich Ihre Reinheit wünsche? 

Es gibt alte Männer und die Frauen, ganz oben verbunden und 
wartet 

Am ährentragenden, Wroughteisen Gatter des großen Auges und am Ohr 
Infirmery. 



Wir sind gegangen nicht weit Furcht lebt dort auch. 

Fünf Ohren meiner Fingerspitzen gegen die weiße Seite. 

Was hören Sie? Wir hören heilig nichts 

Die Augen verbinden. Sie berührte Sie einmal zweimal 

Und zerriß wie eine Heftung aus einer neuen Wunde heraus heftig. 



Zwei 

Was sind Sie bis zum Sohn einer Gewehr? Ich brate auf dunkler Seite 
meines Herzens. 

Was verwenden Sie als Aufsteckspindelschatz? Ich benutze mein eigenes 
gekrümmtes Rückgrat. 

Was salzen Sie sich mit loverboy? Ich reibe die Wörter aus meinem 
Spittle heraus. 

Und wie wissen Sie, wann Sie getaner Tolpatsch sind? Als die 
Hälfte-Monde auf meinen Fingernägeln einstellten. 

Mit welchem Messer schnitzen Sie sich smartass? Das, das ich in der 
schwarzen Aufladung meiner Zunge mich verstecke. 



Gut können Sie nicht mich anrufen einen Ringkämpfer, wenn mein 
eigenes Leergewicht mich unten festgesteckt hat. 

Gut können Sie nicht mich anrufen einen Koch wenn des Topfes, der 
mich unter seiner Abdeckung erhalten wird. 

Gut können Sie nicht mich anrufen einen König, wenn die Fliegen ihre 
Hüte in meiner Öffnung hängen. 

Gut können Sie nicht mich intelligent anrufen, wenn des fallenden 
Regens meiner Schale im Schrank. 

Noch können Sie mich anrufen, den, ein Heiliger, wenn ich mich nicht 
irrte, dort nicht diese Schmierstellen sein würde. 



Man muß handhaben so gut wie eine Dose. Die Mohnblumen aßen den 
Sonnenuntergang für das Abendessen. 

Man muß handhaben so gut wie eine Dose. Wer mein blaues Gewinde 
stahl, das 

Ich band um meinen kleinen Finger, um mich zu erinnern? Man muß 
handhaben so gut wie eine Dose. 

Der Floh, den ich an stand, gesprungen. Man muß handhaben so gut wie 
eine Dose. 

Ich denke, daß mein Kopf für einen Weg erlosch. Man muß handhaben 
so gut wie eine Dose. 



Dieses ist Atem, nur Atem, denken ihn Überschußmitternacht! 

Eine Fliege wiegt zweimal so viel. Das getroffene Gleiche nickt, 
während es überschreitet, 

Aber, wenn ich schreie, seine zutreffenden Namensstöcke in meiner 
Kehle. 

Es muß kalt also das Atemumdrehungen Weiß sein, 

Und dann bemuttern, das schnell genug, sein Leben auf es zu schreiben 
hat? 



Ein Lied im Gefängnis und für Gefangene, 

Gebildet von, was verurteilt von den Gefängnisaufsehern versteckt 
haben. 

Weiß -- mich beiseite treten lassen, damit die Zukunft Sie sehen 
kann, 

Für, wenn dieses Blatt weg durchgebrannt wird, was sonst gelassen 
wird 

Aber die Nahrung auf der Tabelle einstellen, um sich zu schneiden eine 
Scheibe brot? 



In einem unbekannten Jahr eines algebraischen Jahrhunderts, 

Eine unverständliche Witwe aufgewickelt in den Farben der 
Witwenschaft, 

Traf einen zutreffend-blauen Orphan auf einer unbestimmten 
Straße-Ecke. 

Sie bot ihm A kleiner Zuckerwürfel 

an 
In der Hand wizened so alle gesagten Linien: Schicksal. 



Nehmen Sie dieses Erweiterung der Produktpalette zur Unbegrenztheit? 

Ich nehme diesen abgebrochenen Zahn, auf dem ihn zur Hälfte 
schneiden. 

Nehmen Sie diesen Kreis, der durch eine einzelne gebogene Linie 
gesprungen wird? 

Ich nehme diesen Atem, den sie nicht gefangennehmen kann. 

Dann können Sie den Punkt küssen, in dem ihr Brautzug zuletzt 
rustled. 



Winter kann, die Masse Enge zu einem Abzugsgraben jetzt kommen 
-- 

Und der Himmel mit seinen Schlössern und Steinlöwen über den leeren 
Ebenen. 

Der Schnee kann fallen Was andere mehrjährige Pflanzen Sie 
errichten würden, 

Meine prodigals, meine Forscher, die in die Dunkelheit Werfen 
und sich drehen 

Für jene Direktübertragung, fein abgezogene Bienen, die Dezember 
Sterne? 



Mußte durch mich anderwohin erhalten. Elend zum Knochen 

Das stand in ihrer Weise. Elend zu jedem Stückchen Fleisch. 

Weiße Ameisen in einem weißen Ameisenhaufen. 

Der Rustle ihrer vielen Füße Hastend -- tiptoing auch. 

Gravedigger Ameisen. Dorf-Idiot Ameisen. 



Dieses ist das letzte Zusammenrufen. Einsamkeit -- as am Anfang. 

Null burped durch grösseres null -- es ist ein schrecklich Lecken ich 
erhielt. 

Und Furcht -- daß Büro des unzustellbaren Briefes. Und Zweifel -- 
der chinesisches Schattenspiel. 

Sagt jemand Stille ein Gebet, bevor es geht zu Bett zu gehen? 

Weißer Sleeplessness. Niemand kennt sein Gewicht. 



Was Das Weiße Sagen Mußte 

                Für wie konnte alles Weiß von eindeutig sein oder geteilt von der 
Weiße? Meister Eckhart 

                                 
Weil ich die Gewehrkugel bin, die jeder bereits durchgelaufen hat, 
dachte ich an Sie lange vorher Sie dachte an mich. Jedes von Ihnen 
hält noch ein Blut-beflecktes Taschentuch, in dem zum swaddle ich, 
aber in ihm leer bleibe und sogar der Wind nicht in ihm lang bleibt. 
Gescheit haben Sie Namen nach dem Namen für mich erfunden, gemischt 
den Rätseln, verstümmelt den Sprichwörtern, rüttelten Sie luden 
Würfel in einer Zinnschale, aber ich antworte zurück zu glätten 
nicht auf Ihre Flüche, denn ich bin zu Ihnen als Ihr Atem näher. 
Eine Sonne scheint auf uns beide durch einen Sprung im Dach. Ein 
Löffel holt mich durch das Fenster an der Dämmerung. Eine Platte 
zeigt mich weg zu den vier Wänden, während mit meinem Endstück ich 
an den Fliegen schwinge. Aber es gibt kein Endstück und die Fliegen 
sind Ihre Gedanken. Ständig geduldig I Leben Ihre Arme. Ich ordne sie 
in der Lage von ertrinkendem jemand, und doch das Meer, in dem Sie 
sinken, und sogar diese Nacht über ihm, ist selbst. 



Weil ich die Gewehrkugel bin, die jede Ihrer Richtungen getauft hat, 
werden Gedichte gebildet von unseren lusty Hochzeit Nächte Die 
Freude an den Wörtern, wie sie geschrieben werden. Das Ohr, das bei 
vier morgens aufstand, um das Gras zu hören, innerhalb eines Wortes 
zu wachsen. Noch hat das schönste Rätsel keine Antwort. Ich bin die 
Leere, die Querstreifen Sie innen wie das Nest einer Spottdrossel, der 
Fingernagel, der auf Tafel Ihres Schlafes verkratzte. Einen Brief 
nehmen: Von Wolke zu Zwiebel. Sagen: Es gab nie jede reale Wahl. Eine 
gaunt schattenhafte Mutter wischte unsere Esel, das gleiche alte 
Waisenhaus beibrachte uns Einsamkeit ab. Straße-Organ voll der blauen 
Anmerkungen, bin ich der Affe, der zu Ihrem Reiben tanzt -- und noch 
sind Sie ängstlich-und so, ist es, als ob wir nicht uns vom Anfang 
gerührt hatten. Zeitsteigungen. Wir sind fallende Kopfüberfersen mit 
der Geschwindigkeit der Nacht. Daß Milchzahn, den Sie unter dem 
Kissen ließen, es, grinst. 

                                1970-1980 



Diese z.Z. vergriffene Ausgabe: Copyright ©1980 Logbridge-Rhodes, 
Inc.. 

Eine frühere Version von Weiß wurde zuerst von New Rivers 
eindrücken 1972 veröffentlicht.

Charles Simic: Branco (Portuguese)

 
Uma Versão Nova: 1980 

                Que é essa coisa que preta pequena eu v lá no branco? Walt 
Whitman 


Um 

Fora da pobreza a começar outra vez:  

Com a cor do bride e daquele do blindness, 

Toque que mim lata do rápido, 

Falar e esperar então, como se esta luz 

Continuará a linger no ponto inicial. 



Tudo que está próximo, I nenhuma elasticidade mais longa ele um 
nome. 

Uma vez uma pedra duramente do hearing, sharpened uma vez em uma 
faca 

Agora somente um frio que desliza completamente. 

Bastante fulgor a ajoelhar-se perto e pedir para ser amarrado a sua 
cauda 

Quando for casar seus primos, as estrelas. 



É uma nuvem? Se for uma nuvem mover-se-á sobre. 

A forma verdadeira deste pensamento, emigrante, waning. 

Algo procura alguém, ele carrega-o um presente 

Dhimself, um pouco de neve a provar, 

Glimpse de seu próprio nakedness por que para imaginar a cara. 



Em uma tarde atrasada da neve em um mantimento mau-arejado não 
ofuscante, 

Onde uma porta tem o rung justo com um eco curto, agudo, 

Um menino pequeno entrega a mulher velha, hard-faced 

Dobrando-se baixo sobre o contador, niquelar brilhante de A para um 
cupcake. 

Agora somente esse brilho, agora somente esse lull abides. 



Que seu olhar seja merciful, 

Irmã, bride de meu primeiro insomnia impossível. 

A enfermeira amável, mostra-me o lugar dos salves. 

Ensinar-me a canção que faz um homem se levantar 

Seu vidro no dusk até uma estrela dança nele. 



Quem são você? É você que qualquer um o moonrock de A 
reconheceria? 

Há umas palavras que eu necessito. Não estão perto dos homens. 

Eu fui procurarar. É isto um o deathmarch? 

Você dobra-me, dobra-me, Oh para que flor! 

Vogal little-known, Noose grande para nós todos. 



Tão estranho quanto um shepherd no círculo ártico. 

Alguém gosta do Bo-bo-peep. Todos seus carneiros são brancos 

E não pode começar nenhuns carneiros perdidos excesso do sono. 

E tem uma flauta que diga o Bo-bo-peep, 

Qual diz o menino pobre, cuidado da tomada de seus neve-carneiros. 

                        a A.S. Hamilton 



Então todos jorram e branco, e mais do que o branco. 

Snowbound de Illinois. Indiana com a uma árvore desencapada. 

Michigan uma tempestade-nuvem. Wisconsin vazio dos homens. 

Há uma armadilha no gelo colocado lá séculos há. 

O bait é ainda fresco. Os glitters do metal como a noite descem. 



Woe, woe, canta do bough. Nossos senhora, etc.... 

Você teve-me hoodwinked. Eu v suas garras brandnew. 

Praying, que eu betray desejando seu purity? 

Há homens velhos e mulheres, bandaged toda acima, esperando 

Na porta spiked, do feito-ferro do olho grande e na orelha Infirmery. 



Nós não fomos distante O medo vive lá demasiado. 

Cinco orelhas de meus fingertips de encontro à página branca. 

Que você ouve? Nós não ouvimos holy nada 

Blindfolding. Tocou em você uma vez, duas vezes, 

E rasgou como um ponto fora de uma ferida nova. 



Dois 

Que é você até filho de um injetor? Eu roast no lado escuro do meu 
coração. 

Que você usa como um sweetheart do skewer? Eu uso minha própria 
espinha dorsal curvada. 

Que você se salga com loverboy? Eu môo as palavras fora de meu 
spittle. 

E como você saberá quando você é chump feito? Quando as 
metade-luas em minhas unhas se ajustaram. 

Com que faca você carve smartass? Esse que eu escondo no carregador 
preto da minha lingüeta. 



Bem, você não pode chamar-me um wrestler se meu próprio peso 
inoperante me tiver fixado para baixo. 

Bem, você não pode chamar-me um cozinheiro se o potenciômetro 
começado me sob sua tampa. 

Bem, você não pode chamar-me um rei se as moscas pendurarem seus 
chapéus em minha boca. 

Bem, você não puder chamar-me esperto, quando a chuva que cai meu 
copo no armário. 

Nem pode você chamar-me que um saint, se eu não err, lá não seria 
estes borrões. 



Se tem que controlar tão bem como uma lata. Os poppies comeram o por 
do sol para o supper. 

Se tem que controlar tão bem como uma lata. Quem roubou minha linha 
azul, essa 

Eu amarrei em torno do meu pinky para recordar? Se tem que controlar 
tão bem como uma lata. 

A pulga que eu estava sobre, saltado. Se tem que controlar tão bem 
como uma lata. 

Eu penso que minha cabeça saiu para uma caminhada. Se tem que 
controlar tão bem como uma lata. 



Esta é respiração, only respiração, pensa d meia-noite do 
excesso! 

Uma mosca pesa duas vezes tanto quanto. O fósforo golpeado assente 
enquanto passa, 

Mas quando eu shout, suas varas conhecidas verdadeiras em minha 
garganta. 

Tem que ser frio assim que o branco das voltas da 
respiração, 

E servir de mãe então, que tem rapidamente bastante para escrever 
sua vida nele? 



Uma canção na prisão e para prisioneiros, 

Feito de o que condemned esconderam dos jailers. 

Branco -- deixar-me pisar de lado de modo que o futuro possa o 
ver, 

Para quando esta folha for fundida ausente, que outro é 
deixado 

Mas para ajustar o alimento na tabela, para cortar-se uma fatia de 
pão? 



Em um ano desconhecido de um século algébrico, 

Uma viúva obscura envolvida nas cores do widowhood, 

Encontrou-se com um orphan verdadeiro-azul em um rua-canto 
indeterminado. 

Ofereceu-lhe A cubo minúsculo do açúcar 

Na mão wizened assim todas as linhas ditas: fate. 



Você faz exame desta linha esticar à infinidade? 

Eu faço exame deste dente lascado em que para o cortar ao meio. 

Você faz exame deste círculo limitado por uma única linha curvada? 

Eu faço exame desta respiração que não pode capturar. 

Então você pode beijar o ponto onde seu trem bridal rustled por 
último. 



O inverno pode vir agora, o narrow da terra a uma vala -- 

E o céu com seus castelos e leões da pedra acima das planícies 
vazias. 

A neve pode cair O que outros perennials você plantariam, 

Meus prodigals, meus exploradores que lançam e que giram na 
obscuridade 

Para aqueles telecontrole, abelhas finamente afiadas, as estrelas de 
dezembro? 



Teve que começar através de mim em outra parte. Woe ao osso 

Isso estêve em sua maneira. Woe a cada morsel da carne. 

Formigas brancas em um anthill branco. 

O rustle de seus muitos pés Scurrying -- tiptoing demasiado. 

Formigas de Gravedigger. formigas do Vila-village-idiot. 



Este é último chamar. Solitude -- como no começo. 

Um zero burped por um zero mais grande -- é terrível licking mim 
começou. 

E medo -- que escritório da letra inoperante. E dúvida -- que jogo 
chinês da sombra. 

Qualquer um destilador diz um prayer antes de ir alojar? 

Sleeplessness branco. Ninguém sabe seu peso. 



O que O Branco Teve que Dizer 

                Para como podia qualquer coisa branco ser distinto de ou dividido do 
whiteness? Meister Eckhart 

                                 
Porque eu sou a bala que tem atravessado todos já, eu pensei de você 
por muito tempo antes de você pensei de mim. Cada de você mantem 
ainda um lenço sangue-manchado em que ao swaddle eu, mas nele 
permanece vazio e mesmo o vento não remanescerá nele por muito 
tempo. Inteligente você inventou o nome após o nome para mim, 
misturado os riddles, truncados os proverbs, agitou-o carregou dados 
em um copo da lata, mas eu não respondo para trás para nivelar a 
seus curses, porque eu sou mais próximo a você do que sua 
respiração. Um sol brilha em nós ambos através de uma rachadura no 
telhado. Uma colher traz-me através da janela no alvorecer. Uma placa 
mostra-me fora às quatro paredes quando com minha cauda eu balançar 
nas moscas. Mas não há nenhuma cauda e as moscas são seus 
pensamentos. Firmemente, pacientemente vida de I seus braços. Eu 
arranjo os na postura de alguém que afoga-se, no entanto o mar em que 
você se está afundando, e mesmo esta noite acima dele, é eu mesmo. 



Porque eu sou a bala que baptized cada de seus sentidos, os poemas 
são feitos de nossas noites lusty do casamento A alegria das 
palavras como são escritos. A orelha que se levantou em quatro na 
manhã para ouvir a grama crescer dentro de uma palavra. Ainda, o 
riddle o mais bonito não tem nenhuma resposta. Eu sou o emptiness que 
dobras você dentro como o ninho de um mockingbird, a unha que riscou 
no quadro-negro do seu sono. Fazer exame de uma letra: Da nuvem à 
cebola. Palavra: Havia nunca toda a escolha real. Uma mãe shadowy 
gaunt limpou nossos burros, o mesmo orphanage velho ensinou-nos o 
loneliness. Rua-órgão completamente de notas azuis, eu sou o macaco 
que dança a seu moer -- e ainda você é receoso-e assim, é como se 
nós não nos tínhamos movido do começo. Inclinações do tempo. 
Nós somos saltos excedentes de queda da cabeça na velocidade da 
noite. Que dente que você deixou sob o descanso, ele do leite está 
sorrindo. 

                                1970-1980 



Esta edição atualmente out-of-print: Copyright ©1980 
Logbridge-Rhodes, Inc. 

Uma versão mais adiantada do branco foi publicada primeiramente pela 
imprensa de Novo Rio em 1972.

Charles Simic: Blanco (Spanish)

 
Una Nueva Versión: el an o 80 

                ¿Cuál es esa pequeña cosa negra que veo allí en el blanco? Walt 
Whitman 


Uno 

Fuera de la pobreza a comenzar otra vez:  

Con el color de la novia y de la de la ceguera, 

Tacto qué yo lata del rápido, 

Hablar y después esperar, como si esta luz 

Continuará rezagándose en el umbral. 



Todo que está cerca, I ninguna elasticidad más larga él un nombre. 

Una vez una piedra difícilmente de la audiencia, afilado una vez en 
un cuchillo 

Ahora solamente una frialdad que se desliza a través. 

Bastante resplandor a arrodillarse cerca y a pedir ser atado a su 
cola 

Cuando va a casar a sus primos, las estrellas. 



¿Es una nube? Si es una nube se moverá encendido. 

La forma verdadera de este pensamiento, nómada, disminuyendo. 

Algo busca a alguien, él lo lleva un regalo 

De se, un poco nieve a probar, 

Ojeada de su propio nakedness por la cual para imaginar la cara. 



En una última tarde de la nieve en una tienda de comestibles 
malo-ventilada dévil, 

Donde una puerta tiene peldaño justo con un eco corto, 
chillón, 

Un pequeño muchacho da la vieja, revestida en duro mujer 

Doblándose bajo sobre el contador, níquel brillante de A para un 
cupcake. 

Ahora solamente ese brillo, ahora solamente esa calma habita. 



Que su mirada fija sea merciful, 

Hermana, novia de mi primer insomnio desesperado. 

La enfermera buena, me demuestra el lugar de salves. 

Enseñarme la canción que hace que se levanta un hombre 

Su cristal en la oscuridad hasta una estrella baila en él. 



¿Quiénes son usted? ¿Es usted que cualquiera el moonrock de A 
reconocería? 

Hay palabras que necesito. No están cerca de hombres. 

Fui a buscar. ¿Está esto al deathmarch? 

¡Usted me dobla, me dobla, Oh hacia qué flor! 

Vocal poco conocida, Noose grande para nosotros todos. 



Tan extraño como un pastor en el Círculo Polar Ártico. 

Alguien tiene gusto de Bo-pi'o. Todas sus ovejas son blancas 

Y él no puede conseguir ninguna ovejas perdida excedente del sueño. 

Y él tiene una flauta que diga Bo-pi'o, 

Cuál dice a muchacho pobre, cuidado de la toma de sus nieve-ovejas. 

                        a A.S. Hamilton 



Entonces todos manan y blanco, y no más que blanco. 

Snowbound de Illinois. Indiana con un árbol pelado. 

Michigan una tormenta-nube. Wisconsin vacío de hombres. 

Hay una trampa en el hielo puesto allí hace siglos. 

El cebo todavía está fresco. Los brillos del metal como la noche 
descienden. 



Aflicción, aflicción, canta del bough. Nuestra señora, 
etc 

Usted me hizo hoodwinked. Veo sus garras brandnew. 

¿Rogación, qué traiciono deseando su pureza? 

Hay viejos hombres y mujeres, vendadas todo para arriba, 
esperando 

En la puerta del gran ojo y el oído claveteados, del labrado-hierro 
Infirmery. 



No hemos ido lejos El miedo vive allí también. 

Cinco oídos de mis yemas del dedo contra la página blanca. 

¿Qué usted oye? No oímos santo nada 

Blindfolding. Le tocó una vez, dos veces, 

Y se rasgó como una puntada de una herida nueva. 



Dos 

¿Cuál es usted hasta hijo de un arma? Aso en el lado oscuro de mi 
corazón. 

¿Qué usted utiliza como amor del pincho? Utilizo mi propia espina 
dorsal torcida. 

¿Qué usted se sala con loverboy? Muelo las palabras fuera de mi 
spittle. 

¿Y cómo usted sabrá cuándo usted es chump hecho? Cuando las 
mitad-lunas en mis uñas fijaron. 

¿Con qué cuchillo usted se tallará los smartass? El que oculto en el 
cargador negro de mi lengüeta. 



Bien, usted no puede llamarme un luchador si mi propio peso muerto me 
tiene fijado abajo. 

Bien, usted no puede llamarme un cocinero si el pote conseguido me 
bajo su cubierta. 

Bien, usted no puede llamarme un rey si las moscas cuelgan sus 
sombreros en mi boca. 

Bien, usted no puede llamarme elegante, cuando la lluvia que cae mi 
taza en el armario. 

Ni puede usted llamarme que un santo, si no errara, allí no sería 
estas manchas. 



Uno tiene que manejar como mejor una lata. Las amapolas comieron la 
puesta del sol para la cena. 

Uno tiene que manejar como mejor una lata. Quién robó mi hilo de 
rosca azul, el 

¿Até alrededor de mi pinky para recordar? Uno tiene que manejar como 
mejor una lata. 

La pulga que estaba parado encendido, saltado. Uno tiene que manejar 
como mejor una lata. 

Pienso que mi cabeza salió para una caminata. Uno tiene que manejar 
como mejor una lata. 



¡Ésta es respiración, sólo respiración, la piensa medianoche del 
excedente! 

Una mosca pesa dos veces tanto. El fósforo pulsado cabecea como 
pasa, 

Pero cuando grito, sus palillos conocidos verdaderos en mi garganta. 

Tiene que ser frío así que el blanco de las vueltas de la 
respiración, 

¿Y entonces servir de madre, que tiene rápidamente bastante escribir 
su vida en él? 



Una canción en la prisión y para los presos, 

Hecho de lo que han ocultado condenados de los jailers. 

Blanco -- dejarme caminar a un lado de modo que el futuro pueda 
considerarle, 

Para cuando esta hoja está soplada ausente, se deja qué más 

¿Pero para fijar el alimento en la tabla, para cortarse una rebanada 
del pan? 



En un año desconocido de un siglo algebraico, 

Una viuda obscura envuelta en los colores del widowhood, 

Satisfizo a huérfano verdadero-azul en una calle-esquina 
indeterminada. 

Ella le ofreció A cubo minúsculo del azúcar 

En la mano wizened tan todas las líneas dichas: sino. 



¿Usted lleva esta línea el estirar el infinito? 

Tomo este diente saltado en el cual cortarlo por la mitad. 

¿Usted toma este círculo limitado por una sola línea curvada? 

Tomo esta respiración que no pueda capturar. 

Entonces usted puede besar el punto donde su tren nupcial crujió por 
último. 



El invierno puede ahora venir, el estrecho de la tierra a una zanja 
-- 

Y el cielo con sus castillos y leones de la piedra sobre los llanos 
vacíos. 

La nieve puede caer Qué otros perennials usted 
plantarían, 

Mis prodigals, mis exploradores que sacuden y que dan vuelta en la 
obscuridad 

¿Para esos telecontrol, abejas finalmente afiladas con piedra, las 
estrellas de diciembre? 



Tuvo que conseguir a través de mí a otra parte. Aflicción al 
hueso 

Eso estaba parado de su manera. Aflicción a cada bocado de carne. 

Hormigas blancas en un anthill blanco. 

El crujido de sus muchos pies Scurrying -- tiptoing también. 

Hormigas de Gravedigger. hormigas del Aldea-idiota. 



Éste es el convocar pasado. Soledad -- como en el principio. 

Un cero burped por un cero más grande -- es tremenda una lamedura yo 
consiguió. 

Y miedo -- que oficina de la letra muerta. Y duda -- que juego chino 
de la sombra. 

¿Cualquier persona alambique dice un rezo antes de irse a la cama? 

Insomnio blanco. Nadie sabe su peso. 



Qué El Blanco Tuvo que Decir 

                ¿Para cómo podía cualquier cosa blanco ser distinto de o dividido de 
blancura? Meister Eckhart 

                                 
Porque soy la bala que ha pasado con cada uno ya, pensé en usted 
mucho antes de que usted pensé en mí. Cada de usted todavía guarda 
un pañuelo sangre-manchado en el cual al swaddle, pero él permanezca 
vacío e incluso el viento no permanecerá en él de largo. Usted ha 
inventado listo nombre después del nombre para mí, mezclado las 
cribas, mutiladas los proverbios, le sacudarió cargó dados en una 
taza de la lata, pero no contesto detrás para igualar a sus 
maldiciones, porque soy más cercano a usted que su respiración. Un 
sol brilla en nosotros ambos a través de una grieta en la azotea. Una 
cuchara me trae a través de la ventana en el amanecer. Una placa me 
demuestra apagado a las cuatro paredes mientras que con mi cola hago 
pivotar en las moscas. Pero no hay cola y las moscas son sus 
pensamientos. Constantemente, pacientemente vida de I sus brazos. 
Arreglo los en la postura alguien que se ahoga, pero el mar en el cual 
usted se está hundiendo, e incluso esta noche sobre él, es misma. 



Porque soy la bala que ha bautizado cada de sus sentidos, los poemas 
se hacen de nuestras noches fuertes de la boda La alegría de 
palabras como se escriben. El oído que se levantó a las cuatro de la 
mañana para oír la hierba crecer dentro de una palabra. No obstante, 
la criba más hermosa no tiene ninguna respuesta. Soy el vacío 
que las imágenes dobles por la lámina usted adentro como la 
jerarquía de un mockingbird, la uña que rasguñó en la pizarra de 
su sueño. Tomar una letra: De la nube a la cebolla. Opinión: Nunca 
había cualquier opción verdadera. Una madre vaga gaunt limpió 
nuestros asnos, el mismo viejo orphanage nos enseñó soledad. 
Calle-o'rgano por completo de notas azules, soy el mono que baila a su 
moler -- y usted sigue siendo asustado-y así pues, es como si no 
hubiéramos bullido del principio. Cuestas del tiempo. Somos talones 
excesivos de la cabeza que caen a la velocidad de la noche. Que diente 
que usted dejó debajo de la almohadilla, él de la leche está 
haciendo muecas. 

                                1970-1980 



Esta edición actualmente agotada: Copyright ©1980 Logbridge-Rhodes, 
Inc.. 

Una versión anterior del blanco primero fue publicada por New Rivers 
clava 1972.

Charles Simic: White (Blogs)

(These are public search results on the terms: 'Charles Simic: White poem')

Looking it in the Face – Lead.Learn.Live. by David Kanigan (2013/06/09 03:45)
portrait,black and white, photography. “Once she stops pestering me, I steal a peek at the clock and can't believe my ... top of my voice and trailing a cloud of black smoke from the exhaust…” ~ Charles Simic, Looking it in the Face, The New York Review of Books Blog ... Simic has stated: “Words make love on the page like flies in the summer heat and the poet is merely the bemused spectator.” Simic immigrated to the United States with his family in 1954 when he was ...
Quick Reads: Poetry | Reading Suggestions by Brownsburg_Public_Library (2013/05/30 09:57)
White Apples And The Taste Of Stone. One of the ... A collection of poetry by 2007-2008 poet laureate of the United States Charles Simic in which he examines themes such as identity, mystery, violence, and innocence. a. a. a.
NEW: Charles Simic's “Watermelons” – Poetry Genius by Poetry Genius (2013/05/26 23:32)
Well put, Charles Simic. In four lines, the Yugoslavian-born poet manages to comment on the nature of human existence–the constant struggle of creation and destruction–as well as make your mouth water. Don't be fooled by ...
CHARLES SIMIC ~ New and Selected Poems{1962–2012} by noreply@blogger.com (Parrish Lantern) (2013/05/24 12:26)
"The range of Charles Simic' s imagination is evident in his stunning and unusual imagery. He handles language with the skill of a master craftsman, yet his poems are easily accessible, often meditative and surprising. He has ...
Guide Dog Books: The Irreal Reader by Guide Dog Books (2013/05/24 08:22)
Because We Are Precious and Brave. CHARLES SIMIC. Seven Prose Poems. NORMAN LOCK. Unreal Geography. The Cruelty of Poetry. VANESSA GEBBIE. Storm Warning. The Note-Takers. PETER CHERCHES. From Mr. Deadman ... Openings. HARRY WHITE. The Best of the Besht. BRUCE HOLLAND ROGERS. Witness. The Ledger Angel. BRIAN BISWAS. A Betrayal. JIRI VALOCH. semantical studies. J.B. MULLIGAN. The Man in the Red Raincoat. The Message. A White Chair.
Here and Now: Wet by Here and Now (2013/05/21 07:51)
Charles Simic. Modern Sorcery. Ship of Fools. Me. the fella in the booth across from me. David Romtvedt. Moon. Me. bones-jumping blonds and their place in poetry. Otomo No Yakamochi. Selected from One Hundred Poems from ..... read just that very morning. two of my favorite poets. singing in praise of rain. and its natural power of renewal -. so,. instead of lily-white tailing it. I stayed on my little blanket. on the grass. getting gloriously wet. and meeting, as I soaked.
* stepping into the river with Charles Simic | The Friday Influence by Jose Angel Araguz (2013/05/17 08:06)
Charles Simic. *who you calling dim?*. Since I quoted the man last week in regards to the prose poem, I thought I would share some of Charles Simic's own work in the genre. In these excerpts from his book The World Doesn't End you definitely can catch some of that sense of being caught up and driven to rereading a poem in order to continue grasping what the first reading of it had you start to grasp. This may be an exasperating ... Whatever, it had small white teeth.
Collectible Poetry Books by a Portland Small Press - Powell's Books by Chris Faatz (2013/04/26 14:00)
A sweet little book by Charles Simic. Forthcoming William Stafford and other great names and people. John Haines (another of my favorite poets) was once recorded as saying, "a few books, well read and understood, so that ...
Lenny Lianne's Passport to Poetry: Oriana Ivy by Lenny Lianne (2013/04/24 00:30)
In addition to being published in The Best American Poetry 1992 (her poem chosen by Charles Simic, guest editor, with David Lehman, series editor), her poetry has appeared in American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, ...
Charles Simic: Cast of thousands - The Wire by Rick Agran (2013/04/18 12:55)
Charles Simic conjures up this interior cast of characters from a lifetime of crafting poems. These ten populate a single stanza ... Each poem, each page, had its own world and white space. Like the negative space around a ...
National Poetry Month: 'I'm Charles' By Charles Simic | Redneck ... by Jed Clampett (2013/04/11 13:00)
Swayyun' han'cuffet / On un invisibull scaffold, / Hung by t'unsayabull / Lil sumthin / Nite an' day take turns / Paryun' down futher. / My Mind's a ghost trayler / Ope to t'starliite. / My back's coverd wit graffiti / Like un elevatid trane ...
Pinpoints of Light - Terrain.org: A Journal of the Built + Natural ... by tdadmin (2013/03/31 14:34)
These poems are stories both narrative and pointillist, and it's the intersection of those two styles where Siegel takes the reader, never allowing the work to land in one place or the other. In the first poem, “Reasons I Resisted ... These aren't Anne Sexton's human tragedies, nor are they Gary Snyder's appreciations of the wind in the white pines. They're in between. They're both. ... This is the Adams landscape with a good dose of Charles Simic mixed in. Siegel's poem “Chris, 1975” is a ...
An Exemplar of the Live Free or Die Lifestyle: Charles Simic Reads ... by Nicole Aubrey Edwards (2013/03/29 16:27)
Both poet Charles Simic and his newest publication, New and Selected Poems 1962-2012, are still on our minds three weeks later after attending his enthralling reading on Thursday, March 7th at AWP 2013. Read Nicole ...
The Poet as Recorder: Charles Simic's “The White Room” | Litconic ... by Leland Bené (2013/03/28 09:36)
Leland Bené examines Charles Simic's "The White Room." Continue reading »
The “Best of the Best” of American Poetry » BU Now | Blog Archive ... by Emily Truax (2013/03/21 10:42)
... are several contributing poets to the current anthology, including Carl Phillips, an award-winning poet and current chancellor of the Academy of American Poets; Pulitzer Prize winner Lloyd Schwartz; and Charles Simic, ...
Poem By Charles Simic | Ross Martin | Something Burning by Ross Martin (2013/03/17 11:39)
... and white, / Except for the faint blue lines / Which might have been bars, / For I kept walking and walking, / And it got darker and then there was / A flicker of a light or two / Far above and beyond my big cage. / - Charles Simic.
Celebrating legendary poet, Federico Garcia Lorca - NBC Latino by Claudio Iván Remeseira (2013/03/16 02:00)
... featuring some of the most outstanding American poets alive: John Ashbery, Paul Auster, Eduardo C. Corral, Aracelis Girmay, John Giorno, Ben Lerner, Charles Simic, Mónica de la Torre, and Frederic Tuten, among others.
We Couldn't Stop Looking by Charles Simic | NYRblog | The New ... by unknown (2013/02/21 11:04)
Charles Simic. Courtesy George Peet. Minor White editing photographs, MIT Warehouse, 1972. Aperture magazine, which just celebrated its sixtieth anniversary, has published Aperture Magazine Anthology: The Minor .... If I could take pictures, I would not write poems—or at least, this is what I thought every time I fell in love with some photograph in the office, in many cases with one that I had already seen, but somehow, to my surprise, failed to properly notice before.
Beginner's guide to letter-writing :: Good :: Simple choices for a ... by Rebekah White (2013/02/20 01:00)
“A scrap of paper and a stub of a pencil are more preferable for philosophising than typing the same words down,” said American poet laureate Charles Simic in the New York Review of Books. “Writing a word out, letter by letter, is a more self- conscious ... Don't underestimate the elegance of good-quality, slightly textured white paper, though ultimately, anything will do – from refill to sheets ripped from a notebook. b “Pre-address your envelope and put a stamp on it so ...
We live in a lonely society, eating alone in restaurants – Poem by ... by Shiv Singh (2013/02/15 22:45)
We live in a lonely society, eating alone in restaurants – Poem by Charles Simic. By Shiv Singh On February 16, 2013 · Leave a Comment. The Partial Explanation Charles Simic Seems like a long time. Since the waiter took my order.
Griffin Poetry Prize | Poem of the Week | The White Room by admin (2013/02/09 22:00)
Kept me sleepless. / The truth is bald and cold, / Said the woman / Who always wore white. / She didn't leave her room. / The sun pointed to one or two / Things that had survived / The long night intact. / The simplest things,.
Dreams I've Had (and Some I Haven't) by Charles Simic | NYRblog ... by Charles Simic (2013/01/24 13:20)
Dreams I've Had (and Some I Haven't). Charles Simic. Detail from the February 2, 1913 installment of Dream of the Rarebit Fiend, by Winsor McCay. In my younger days, I rarely remembered my dreams and often assured friends that I didn't have any. The reason may have been ... To make things even more embarrassing, I was a poet and one who was told repeatedly that his poems gave the impression of having been lifted directly from dreams. When I objected and ...
The Excavator: Charles Simic - Shelley by Saman Mohammadi (2013/01/21 19:55)
Charles Simic - Shelley. Charles Simic, the 15th U.S. Poet Laureate. Photo by Peter Gregoire. Source. "Simic has never been directly confrontational…but he has, he says, “pretty much endorsed that sense of the poet who speaks truth to power. ... "For in this world of lies, Truth is forced to fly like a scared white doe in the woodlands; and only by cunning glimpses will she reveal herself, as in Shakespeare and other masters of the great Art of Telling the Truth,--even ...
A Year in Fragments by Charles Simic | NYRblog | The New York ... by Charles Simic (2012/12/31 07:46)
Charles Simic. Thomas Hoepker/Magnum Photos. Aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, Coney Island, New York, 2012. On my walk this afternoon, I saw a store window full of manicurists at work, a green grocer on a sidewalk watering his ... Writers and poets, destined to remain obscure, wrote feverishly while everyone else slept and black barges glided on the East River taking loads of garbage out to sea. ... He brought me two pieces of badly burnt toast on a white plate.
Tomaž Šalamun's On the Tracks of Wild Game reviewed by Kevin ... by Tarpaulin Sky Press (2012/11/21 07:26)
Unlike the generation of Eastern European poets (Zbigniew Herbert, Miroslav Holub, Vasko Popa) marked by the war and its aftermath, Šalamun and his contemporaries (Joseph Brodsky, Charles Simic, Adam Zagajewski) came of age in the 1960s, amid the crushing material and intellectual poverty of the Communist postwar years. Still, while he shares with these contemporaries a sense of ... Let the scent of egg-white, a yolk, a man and a dog surge. Like Khlebnikov and the Russian ...
Is Standstill Spreading? | Circumference by Elizabeth Clark Wessel (2012/11/19 14:12)
As one clipped, small, free-verse poem follows on another, the reader also begins to sense that Favery may have been in touch with some of his contemporaries in America, particularly Franz Wright and Charles Simic. The first poems in the book bear a ... almost / where I ought to be: / even if it were me / sitting on the bank, or / rather: lying on the bank, / beneath eared, white or / almond willows, hanging / so long on which have been / the harps; the strangled” (p. 11).
The Writer's Life: Developing Your Writing Voice | Find Your Creative ... by Find Your Creative Muse (2012/11/07 06:44)
Read a poem by Charles Simic, Mary Oliver, Robert Frost, or any other memorable poet, you'll quickly discover their compelling and authentic voice. Read the short stories of Poe, Atwood, Munro, and you will hear different voices expresses as you read. Read an personal essay by E.B. White or Joan Didion–you'll discover other voices. A writer's voice is their “public persona, which is revealed on the page when you read. Reading enable you to hear the writer speak.
Charles Simic--Selected Poems | The Master List by Eric Casero (2012/10/21 15:22)
Charles Simic--Selected Poems. Simic's poetry appears to be highly influenced by imagists like William Carlos Williams, as his poems are often short and tightly-constructed, working to present a single image and revise the ...
Pulitzer-Winner and Poet Laureate Charles Simic at Stella Adler ... by Rick Busciglio (2012/10/16 07:39)
NEWS FROM ACROSS THE RIVER: Charles Simic, one of America's preeminent poets, will give a reading of his poems at the Stella Adler Studio of Acting on Tuesday, October 23 at 7 PM. The reading by Simic, who won the ...
Charles Simic in conversation with Tea Obreht at Stand, NYC by the brunette bibliophile (2012/09/12 04:00)
Charles Simic in conversation with Tea Obreht at Stand, NYC. Monday night, I had the pleasure of spending an hour at Strand listening to former Poet Laureate Charles Simic being interviewed by Tea Obreht. He read from his ...
pigeons at dawn :: charles simic | poetry by supriyanna (2012/08/20 23:41)
pigeons at dawn :: charles simic. by supriyanna on August 20, 2012. Extraordinary efforts are being made. To hide things from us, my ... Clouds and wisps of white smoke. We must be patient, we told ourselves, See if the pigeons will coo now
After Aurora: No End to Grief by Charles Simic | NYRblog | The New ... by Charles Simic (2012/07/31 13:45)
Charles Simic. Alex Webb/Magnum Photos. Early morning on Squam Lake, New Hampshire, 2000. Taking a leisurely drive this time of year across rural Vermont and New Hampshire one may be forgiven for thinking that one is in paradise. ... hens have withdrawn in the shade of a large tree and sit around a rooster who looks as if he's about to deliver a stump speech; a big black and white dog on a chain outside a trailer gets up wagging his tail to see who is coming, ...
NYS Summer Writers Institute 2012 | All Over Albany by AOA (2012/05/22 18:15)
JULY 4: Allan Gurganus (author, Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All; White People) and Campbell McGrath (poet, MacArthur Award, Seven Notebooks; In the Kingdom of the Sea Monkeys; American Noise). JULY 5: Paul Auster (author, Winter ... JULY 17: Charles Simic (Former Poet Laureate, Pulitzer Prize, The World Doesn't End; Master of Disguises) and Danzy Senna (author, From Caucasia, with Love; You are Free: Stories). JULY 18: William Kennedy ...
Remembering Carlos Fuentes, Charles Simic on Writing Poetry, and ... by esmithrakoff (2012/05/16 09:22)
Charles Simic explains why he still writes poetry. (New York Review of Books). A former pharmaceutical executive, Andrew G. Bodnar, convicted of a white-collar crime, instead of jail time, was sentenced to write a book.
Poetry on the Brain: A real door slammed off-stage by Helen Mort (2012/05/04 09:00)
It put me in mind of a great Charles Simic poem, 'The White Room' in which he laments: The obvious is difficult. To prove. Many prefer. The hidden. I did, too. I listened to the trees. They had a secret. Which they were about to
Rhythm Rides — Contrary Blog by Dmitry Kiper (2012/04/24 06:00)
Of course, some poets, such as recent U.S. Poet Laureates Charles Simic and Kay Ryan, consistently offer you such short poems that you're certain to finish any one of them before your next stop. A new Kay ... In that case, Chilean poet Pablo Neruda is your man. Anything from Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair will make you weak and warm. And you may even miss your stop. In “White Bee,” Neruda writes: White bee, you buzz in my soul, drunk with honey,
CONGRATULATIONS TO THE 32 POETS MOVING ON! | Scarriet by thomasbrady (2012/04/21 10:49)
Charles Bernstein 80-47) Mary Oliver (d. Charles Simic 67-53) James Tate (d. Paul Muldoon 71-51). Summary: The beasts are in the East: Collins, Heaney, Pinsky, Oliver, Tate, Franz Wright, plus the upstart Ben Mazer, who has an aura of invincibility ... Charles Wright 67-54). Summary: the veteran Merwin is the only white poet to move on in this brackett. Walcott is the Nobel Prize Winner, Patricia Smith, the Slam wild card, and Rita Dove, the Anthology editor. North:.
Age of Ignorance by Charles Simic | NYRblog | The New York ... by unknown (2012/03/20 07:55)
Charles Simic. Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images. Fairgoers cheer for Sarah Palin while she appears on the Sean Hannity Show at the Iowa State Fair, August 12, 2011. Widespread ignorance bordering on idiocy is our new national goal. ... since the students read little literature before coming to college and often lack the most basic historical information about the period in which the novel or the poem was written, including what important ideas and issues occupied ...
exceptindreams: 1402: The Lovers | Charles Simic by a poem a day (2012/02/28 20:06)
a poem a day ( exceptindreams) wrote, 2012-02-28 22:06:00. Previous · Memorize; Share; Next. 1402: The Lovers | Charles Simic. "The Lovers" Charles Simic In the woods, one fair Sunday, When we were children, We came upon a couple lying on the ground. Hand in hand, ourselves afraid. Of losing our way, we saw. What we first thought was a patch of snow, The two clutching each other naked. On the ... You say, I have too much white clothing./You start to hum. Tags: charles simic ...
Interview with poet Charles Simic | genemyers.com by genemyers (2012/02/27 18:20)
Charles Simic was the U.S. Poet Laureate and has won numerous prizes for his work, including the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. Born in 1938 in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, he is no stranger to war and its effects on people's lives.
When Movies Kept Us Awake at Night by Charles Simic | NYRblog ... by unknown (2012/01/18 10:30)
When Movies Kept Us Awake at Night. Charles Simic. A number of years ago I bought Halliwell's Film Guide to thousands of movies going back to the silent film era, which provides not just the names of actors, writers, directors, producers, but also plot summaries and quotes from contemporary reviews. ... If I saw all of these movies, I asked myself, how did I ever find the time to sleep, eat, read books, teach students, raise a family and write hundreds of poems?
X Poetics: Fraser & Oppen on the Same Day by Robin Tremblay-McGaw (2011/12/14 21:57)
Reading "Song, The Winds of Downhill," Peter pointed out that Oppen here begins by quoting Charles Simic's poem "White" (which you can read here) and from there went on to discuss the tension between poetry and politics ...
The White Room by Charles Simic : The Poetry Foundation ... by shorelineclusterpoets (2011/12/02 20:22)
building a creative atmosphere for writers on the Connecticut shore & beyond (by shorelineclusterpoets/NE Fowl)
Page vs. Stage | No Dead White Men by threesixfivestory (2011/11/28 01:10)
Does this mean that the page poet cares less about how welcoming their poems are? No – there are simply different expectations about what is reasonable in terms of accessibility. Charles Simic has said of poems: 'once you ...
hi spirits: Charles Simic on Writing Poetry by Andrew (2011/10/20 07:21)
Charles Simic on Writing Poetry. A few things to keep in mind while sitting down to write a poem: 1. Don't tell the readers what they already know about life. 2. Don't assume you're the only one in the world who suffers. 3.
Meijer Foundation gifts famed 'Portraits of American Poets' to Grand ... by unknown (2011/10/20 00:00)
The series includes portraits of U.S. Poet Laureates Ted Kooser, Billy Collins and Charles Simic; Noble Laureate Derek Walcott; and Michigan-born poets Jim Harrison and Dan Gerber, among others. The collection of ... Drawing upon his profound knowledge of art history and an alchemist's sense of painting craft, Smith used a mixture favored by the Dutch Masters, made from raw linseed oil, white beeswax and lead salts, mixed on his kitchen stove. When painted ...
After Miłosz: Simic, Levine, and Zagajewski Talk Poetry in Chicago by Archambeau (2011/10/07 12:17)
Philip Levine began by speaking of Miłosz as a great lyric poet of landscapes, and of water, reading poems that demonstrated this. Charles Simic then read Miłosz's poem "Encounter": We were riding through frozen fields in a ...
Puppet-Maker by Charles Simic : Poetry Magazine - Difficult Degrees by amyjosprague (2011/05/23 08:17)
Puppet-Maker by Charles Simic : Poetry Magazine [poem/magazine] ... I hear his white cane thumping ... This entry was posted in Contemporary Poets, poetry and tagged charles simic, contemporary poets, culture, poetry.
Charles Simic Reads at PSU April 14 | Plymouth State University ... by zbtirrell@plymouth.edu (2011/04/11 00:00)
Plymouth, N.H.–The Eagle Pond Authors' Series at Plymouth State University will host a reading by former U.S. Poet Laureate Charles Simic at 7 p.m. Thursday, April 14 at the Silver Center for the Arts. Simic has written more ...
Charles Simic's DIME STORE ALCHEMY - Big Other by Molly Gaudry (2011/04/05 09:17)
Contemporary Verse Novels and Sentences and Fragments: Charles Simic's DIME STORE ALCHEMY. April 5, 2011 by Molly Gaudry. I'm not really sure why I keep writing ... And in the midst of reading so much poetry that confused me (I've been pretty loud and clear about how I'm not the best reader of poetry, about how poetry often baffles me), I was really, well, just happy, to open this book, read the first poem, and feel good about life. No anxiety, no confusion, no bewilderment.
Barely South Review » ODU – Poetry Society of Virginia – Academy ... by Barely South Review (2011/03/28 07:57)
The MFA Creative Writing Program thanks all the fine poets who participated in this year's College Poetry Prize, Co-sponsored by the MFA Creative Writing Program, the Poetry Society of Virginia, and the Academy of American Poets. The College ... Sarah Goughnor and Elizabeth Dwyer (Undergraduate); Wendi White, Jeffrey Turner, and Heather Weddington (Graduate). Adrian Matejka ... The tone reminds me of some of Charles Simic's earlier writing. “September ...
Watermelons by Charles Simic | Read A Little Poetry by T. (2011/02/25 16:54)
Watermelons by Charles Simic. I can't believe I haven't posted this before. One of my favourite works by Charles Simic. Watermelons Charles Simic. Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile. And spit out the teeth.
Poetic Friday: “Puppet-Maker,” Charles Simic | Side B Magazine by Fiona (2011/02/25 08:00)
Poetic Friday: “Puppet-Maker,” Charles Simic. Posted by admin on Feb 25, 2011 in Etc. | 0 comments. In his fear of solitude, he made us. Fearing eternity, he gave us time. I hear his white cane thumping. Up and down the hall. I expect ...
Announcing the 2011 Frost Medalist, Charles Simic - Poetry Society ... by unknown (2011/01/24 01:00)
The Poetry Society of America is honored to announce that Charles Simic is the 2011 recipient of the organization's highest award, the Frost Medal, presented annually for "lifetime achievement in poetry. ... His poems have appeared in over 100 literary journals and magazines, and his full-length collections include White (1972); Unending Blues (1986); The World Doesn't End (1989), for which he won the 1990 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry; Hotel Insomnia (1992); and ...
Poem of the Day » Prodigy by Charles Simic by rinabeana (2011/01/09 16:57)
At book club today, some of my compatriots (who are also in a poetry discussion group with me) mentioned Charles Simic. Since he's awesome, I went and found another of his poems to post. Prodigy By Charles Simic. I grew up ... The white King was missing and had to be substituted for. I'm told but do not believe that that summer I witnessed men hung from telephone poles. I remember my mother blindfolding me a lot. She had a way of tucking my head suddenly ...
Victoria Chang: Coffee Chat #4: Allison Benis White by Victoria Chang (2011/01/05 15:58)
VC: I still remember my friend at Open Books saying to me: "This book is interesting...worth reading and buying" and when I read the first poem, I instantly felt connected with the work...and then the rest of the world found out. .... ABW: The books of poetry I read and re-read while writing Self-Portrait with Crayon were Louise Gluck's The Wild Iris, Killarney Clary's Who Whispered Near Me, John Berryman's Dreamsongs, Charles Simic's The World Does Not End, ...
Charles Simic – 2 poems » < t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m > by terribly (2010/11/19 22:04)
Charles Simic – 2 poems · Poems Add comments. Nov 202010. The Lives of the Alchemists. The great labor was always to efface oneself, Reappear as something completely different: The pillow of a young woman in love, A ball of lint pretending to be a spider. Black boredoms of rainy country nights. Thumbing the writings of illustrious adepts ... A year of white handkerchiefs, Crumpled and strewn on the floor. Once we took a walk in the cemetary. The leafless old trees terrified me,
Spaar on Poetry: The Illuminations of Charles Wright - Arts ... by Alex Kafka (2010/10/30 22:15)
One of a generation of luminous heavy-hitters (Gary Snyder, Mark Strand, Fanny and Susan Howe, Mary Oliver, Jay Wright, and Charles Simic, to name just a few), some of whom, like Sylvia Plath and Ted Berrigan, are no longer alive to grace us with the benefit of their long apprenticeship and vision, Wright continues to create, in a replete range of tonal, stylistic, and thematic registers, poems of prescient, ... The color of pale fish blood and water that ran to white.
EVERYTHING'S JAKE: Charles Simic and Me: DP Poets by John Guzlowski (2010/06/16 12:12)
Here's a poem Charles Simic wrote. Puppet-Maker In his fear of solitude, he made us. Fearing eternity, he gave us time. I hear his white cane thumping. Up and down the hall. I expect neighbors to complain, but no. The little ...
Pansy Poetics: On Charles Simic's Review of Koethe, Armantrout ... by Steve Fellner (2010/06/06 17:57)
Poet Charles Simic writes a review of three poets: John Koethe, Rae Armantrout, and Tony Hoagland. Even though he rarely explicitly compares them, Simic's ars poetica become all too clear and symptomatic of what may be ...
Poem of the Week: "Prodigy," by Charles Simic - Not Your Mama's ... by Beth (2010/06/06 14:23)
Anyway, the book reminds me of a Charles Simic poem I read a few years ago. It's a poem about growing up in the middle of a war, and I've always liked how Simic refuses to allow the poem to come together as a whole. It's as broken ... In the set we were using, the paint had almost chipped off the black pieces. The white King was missing and had to be substituted for. I'm told but do not believe that that summer I witnessed men hung from telephone poles. I remember ...
“The White Room” by Charles Simic | Whitman43's Blog by whitman43 (2010/05/10 08:28)
Firstly, Charles Simic's poem, “The White Room” is a poem of juxtapositions, as Simic contrasts the brightness of the “white room” with “dark houses”, “someone with eyes closed” and being “sleepless”. Night and day become ...
Orlando White Recommends... | Poets & Writers by spettypiece (2010/03/03 08:27)
white.jpg. "For some poetic guidance I always find myself going back to books like the Orphan Factory and Selected Early Poems by Charles Simic; also, Reasons for Moving and The Weather of Words by Mark Strand.
Orphan of Silence: Charles Simic | Alan W. King's Blog by Alan King (2009/11/22 19:47)
Simic is a recipient of several honors that include the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1990, a finalist for the National Book Award in 1996, a Griffin Prize in 2005, and he was the 15th US Poet Laureate (2007-2008). Charles Simic ...
CONTEMPORARY VISIONS: Rick Marlatt on Charles Simic's Sixty ... by Daniel Casey (2009/10/31 22:16)
simic. Sixty Poems, Charles Simic, Harvest Books. Throughout this collection, Simic captures what can be safely encompassed as truly contemporary visions. Socially, Simic's themes and images range from entertainment with television, film, theatre (“The Devils,” “Cameo Appearance”) and dining, to travel ... For instance, in “The Secret,” while the speaker contemplates death and his existence, he catches a glimpse of his white cat “picking at the bloody head of a fish.
charles simic | the toad | poetry dispatch & other notes from the ... by gron (2009/09/16 01:05)
I'm staying in the country, / Rising early, / Listening to the birds / Greet the light, / And when they fall quiet, / To the wind in the leaves / Which are as numerous here / As the crowds in your city. / God never made a day as ...
Walking Around Looking At Stuff: A Poem by Charles Simic, From ... by austen cornell (2009/08/26 14:55)
As I say in the title of this post, this is a poem by Charles Simic. Being a prose poem, that may be difficult to discern. Here goes--) / STREET-CORNER ... white tape so it looks like it's bandaged. / Making art in America is about ...
the white room :: charles simic | poetry by supriyanna (2009/07/11 07:53)
The obvious is difficult. To prove. Many prefer. The hidden. I did, too. I listened to the trees. They had a secret. Which they were about to. Make known to me– And then didn't. Summer came. Each tree. On my street had its own
Petitedov: The White Room by Charles Simic by petitedov (2009/06/28 10:47)
I find this poem to be almost perfect. It captures the mystery that is so hard to describe/explain about life. Or at least come close to it. The White Room by Charles Simic The obvious is difficult. To prove. Many prefer. The hidden.
Eating, Kafka II: Rauan Klassnik interviews CAConrad | HTMLGIANT by unknown (2009/05/13 00:00)
(Simic's mother as poetry weather and/or Salamun nibbling on a very orange carrot. So orange in fact his eyes have turned orange. So orange in fact in fact in fact Charles Simic's poems and mother have all turned orange too.
Three Poems by Novica Tadic translated from the Serbian by ... by unknown (2009/02/07 14:19)
Three Poems. By Novica Tadic translated from the Serbian by Charles Simic February 7, 2009. Conversation (1). A two-legged bag stops me on the street and asks me what I'm carrying in bags under my arm carrying carrying carrying. Nothing
Grandaddy Clause: Charles Simic - Magnet Magazine by Jud Cost (2009/02/01 17:00)
Lytle: For all those years I was self-conscious of the fact I had a hard time “getting” poetry, Charles Simic was my entry into the world of poetry. I was always concerned that it didn't resonate with me. A big part of it is that he's ...
Elitist Obama Inaugural Will Feature Poetry - Wonkette by Sara K. Smith (2008/12/17 15:17)
Quoth Charles Simic, a poet who we actually like: “The best stuff that happens in poems you cannot will,” he said. “I can't, for example, lock you in a room and say, 'Give me a great metaphor.' You can't. I can't, if somebody ...
One Poet's Notes: Charles Simic on Poetry and History by Edward Byrne (2008/11/03 23:09)
Therefore, the following comments by Charles Simic, former Poet Laureate of the United States, about the importance of an ongoing relationship between poetry and history, though authored more than twenty years ago, still ...
Thoughts on the Poet Laureateship and Charles Simic's Tenure by Philip Metres (2008/08/09 07:01)
I recently read an interview with Charles Simic, the outgoing Poet Laureate, and it was probably the first thing I'd read or heard of his tenure. After one year, the 70-year-old Simic decided to step down: Simic, who succeeded ...
Ali Alizadeh reviews Charles Simic | Cordite Poetry Review by David (2008/07/28 00:19)
That Little Something by Charles Simic Harcourt, 2008. An interesting aspect of Serbian-born Charles Simic's being chosen as the United States' 15th Poet Laureate is that Simic, partly due to his experience of a European ...
The Olives of Oblivion: What the Grass Says by Charles Simic by Tavern Books (2008/06/01 14:23)
What the Grass Says, Charles Simic's first book, is an unpaginated smörgåsbord of different-colored paper (white, green, and pink), eye-blurring block prints by Joan Abelson, and what certainly amounts to some of the best poems published in 1967. This combination of disparate elements is the trademark of kayak guru George Hitchcock (aka Jorge Hitchcock)--poet, painter, political dissident, publisher, editor. If you don't know kayak magazine, then head to your local ...
Text of Charles Simic's commencement speech - Bucknell University by unknown (2008/05/19 00:00)
Poet Laureaute Charles Simic. ... I pictured myself differently; wearing a white suit, sipping cocktails in a bar of some once-elegant hotel in the war zone, flirting with a beautiful, mysterious woman who most likely was a spy but who looked like one of the 1940s Hollywood movie stars in black and ... In the meantime, I published my first book of poems and was preparing my second one while working at various office jobs in Chicago and New York and enjoying myself.
Integral Options Cafe: Poetry News - Charles Simic & Gary Snyder by WH (2008/05/02 06:03)
A grizzled black-eyed rabbit showed me / irrigation ditches, open paved highway, / white line / to the hill. / bell chill blue jewel sky / banners / Banner clouds flying, / The mountains all gathered, / juniper trees on the flanks
Charles Simic: Bibliography | Biblios by lindaleu (2008/03/01 20:31)
What the Grass Says (1967); Somewhere Among Us A Stone Is Taking Notes (1969); Dismantling The Silence (1971); White (1972); Return To A Place Lit By A Glass Of Milk (1974); Biography and a Lament (1976); Charon's ... Weather Forecast for Utopia and Vicinity: Poems, 1967 – 1982 (1983); Selected Poems, 1963 – 1983 (1985); Unending Blues (1986); Pyramids and Sphinxes (1989); The World Doesn't End: Prose Poems (1990) – Pulitzer Prize for Poetry; The ...
The Taste of Silence by Adam Kirsch - Poetry Foundation by Poetry Foundation (2008/01/02 10:55)
The more widely you read, in fact, the clearer it becomes that our poetry has a distinctive metaphysics, a set of principles or intuitions held in common by poets as different as Seamus Heaney, Charles Simic, and Billy Collins. ..... White erasure. Over a huge, Furiously crossed-out something. The whiteness the poet seeks is an absence, but also the trace of a presence. It is the white not of void but of erasure, the silence not of muteness but of reticence. In these lines ...
Poem of the Week: Poem of the Week 11/15/2007: Pigeons at Dawn by Sarah E. Smith (2007/11/23 01:52)
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. Charles Simic I am hesitating to say what I think this poem means; Charles Simic (our current Poet Laurate) uses imagery so delicately and carefully... I don't want to do it violence. It has a secret, you know, and it's hard to strip that away. So before you read my ...
Thirteen Blackbirds Poetry: Charles Simic by enudelman (2007/10/26 07:48)
Charles Simic (b. 1938) is a great American poet whose influences are easily traced to his European upbringing in the midst of the upheaval during and just after World War II. Simic's poetry richly draws on the bewildering despair and .... Bibliography of Simic's Published Poetry Books What the Grass Says - 1967. Somewhere Among Us A Stone Is Taking Notes - 1969. Dismantling The Silence - 1971. White - 1972. Return To A Place Lit By A Glass Of Milk - 1974
Charles Simic stands alone - Silliman's Blog by Ron (2007/10/23 05:34)
In other words, the right form for a poem trying to describe a red wheelbarrow next to a couple of white chickens, or one about staring into a bathroom mirror at midnight, is to be found in the experience itself and is not to ...
Poet Laureate Simic: 'I grew up bent over a chessboard' - ChessBase by ChessBase (2007/10/15 17:00)
Charles Simic made a name for himself in the 1970s as a literary minimalist, writing terse, imagistic poems which, like those of William Blake, have their roots in observed objects that serve to extrapolate the universe. Over the years, his style has become ... It is about the lad who learnt the game from a retired professor of astronomy, who grew up bent over a chessboard, using chipped pieces and missing a white king. It is a poem about growing up in Belgrade during ...
Derrick Poem (The Lost World) - Academy of American Poets by unknown (2007/08/29 14:11)
Derrick Poem (The Lost World). by Terrance Hayes. I take my $, buy a pair of very bright kicks for the game at the bottom of the hill on Tuesday w / Tone who averages 19.4 points a game, & told me about this spot, & this salesman w / gold ringed fingers fitting a $100 dollar NBA Air Avenger over the white part of me–my sock, my heel & sole, though I tell him Avengers are too flashy & buy blue & white Air Flights w / the dough I was suppose to use to pay the light bill & worse, use the ...
One Poet's Notes: Richard Hugo's Letter to Charles Simic by Edward Byrne (2007/08/08 22:04)
Richard Hugo's Letter to Charles Simic. Since last week's announcement by the Library of Congress that Charles Simic had been appointed the nation's latest Poet Laureate, I have enjoyed browsing through the many pieces in newspapers, as well as online literary sites and poetry blogs, about Simic and his work. Indeed, because the Library .... in summer, the pure puffed white, soft birds careening in and out, our lives with a chance to drift on slow over the world, our ...
A poet who deserves his laurels | Books | guardian.co.uk by Jay Parini (2007/08/06 07:56)
Charles Simic. Photograph: Richard Drew/AP. Charles Simic has just been named the 15th poet laureate of the United States. On top of this, almost simultaneously, he has won the Wallace Stevens award from the Academy of American Poets (it pays very well: $100,000). All of this recognition comes as Simic edges .... The week in TV. Telly addict Andrew Collins reviews The White Queen (above); Dates; The Secret Life of the Cat; and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart ...
Politics and the Poet Laureate - NYTimes.com by Dwight Garner (2007/08/02 06:40)
Charles Simic is the new Poet Laureate of the United States – or PLOTUS, to borrow the jolly acronym his predecessor, Donald Hall, liked to employ. ... And Billy Collins, who served as Poet Laureate from 2001 to 2003, had this to say to the BBC early in February of 2003: “I have tried to keep the West Wing and the East Wing of the White House as separate as possible because I support what Mrs. Bush has done for the causes of literacy and reading. But as this ...
the rain in my purse: Charles Simic named Poet Laureate by sarahjane (2007/08/02 00:38)
(NYT) Charles Simic, a writer who juxtaposes dark imagery with ironic humor, is to be named the country's 15th poet laureate by the Librarian of Congress today. Mr. Simic, 69, was born in .... You can read White Room here:
Irene Hossack: Charles Simic: Between Hermeneutics and Poetics by Irene Hossack (2007/05/29 04:10)
He asked the poet Charles Simic to offer a sketch of his life, to which his subject responded with an emphatic "No, I hate biographies. What matters ought to be in the poems. The rest is boredom..."[2] This response is an apt .... These inseparable though discernible qualities are revealed as a unity which is a disunity as we shall see in reading the poem 'White'. To illuminate the locus of Simic's poetics which lingers on the threshold between being in the world and being ...
One Poet's Notes: Charles Simic: MY NOISELESS ENTOURAGE by Edward Byrne (2007/02/21 23:06)
Everything on hold: / Rooftops and water towers, / Clouds and wisps of white smoke.” As with Hitchcock's innocent characters that find ... Still, as Charles Simic has demonstrated since his first collection forty years ago, and as he indicated in his early essay, even within these admittedly evident limitations, the poet intends to prove he can offer a new “view of our human condition” and “a principle of uncertainty.” He hopes to show he may be able to relay aspects of ...
MetaChat - Charles Simic by unknown (2006/07/31 00:00)
Charles Simic is my favorite poet, though I sometimes think his prose work is even better. Here are a few samples ... I also like naps in the afternoon, well-chilled white wine, and the squabbling of philosophers. What joy and ...
In Summer- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More by unknown (2006/05/09 01:03)
Oh, summer has clothed the earth In a cloak from the loom of the sun! And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue, And a belt where the rivers run. And now for the kiss of the wind, And the touch of the air's soft hands, With the rest from strife and ...
1000 Black Lines: Poem Review: "Old Soldier" by Charles Simic by mxmulder (2005/08/11 04:35)
Poem Review: "Old Soldier" by Charles Simic. About four months ago I wrote a review of a poem by Charles Simic for an editor, but I have not received word as to its status. So, here's an abbreviated form of the review.
The Congressional Library [excerpt] - Academy of American Poets by unknown (2005/06/01 17:00)
White columns polished like glass, A dome and a dome, A balcony and a balcony, Stairs and the balustrades to them, Yellow marble and red slabs of it, All mounting, spearing, flying into color. Color round the dome and up to it, Color curving, ...
Autumn Sky by Charles Simic : Poetry Magazine by Poetry Magazine (2002/10/15 00:00)
By Charles Simic b. 1938 Charles Simic. In my great grandmother's time,. All one needed was a broom. To get to see places. And give the geese a chase in the sky. •. The stars know everything,. So we try to read their minds. As distant as they ...
Daffy Duck In Hollywood- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More by unknown (2002/01/31 17:00)
The White Room by Charles Simic. They'll spend the summer by Joshua Beckman. This Lime Tree Bower My Prison by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Three Songs at the End of Summer by Jane Kenyon. Vacation by Rita Dove. Vertumnal [excerpt]
A Lesson for This Sunday- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More by unknown (2001/01/31 17:00)
The growing idleness of summer grass With its frail kites of furious butterflies Requests the lemonade of simple praise In scansion gentler than my hammock swings And rituals no more upsetting than a Black maid shaking linen as she sings ...
Ground Swell- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More by unknown (2001/01/31 17:00)
Is nothing real but when I was fifteen, Going on sixteen, like a corny song? I see myself so clearly then, and painfully-- Knees bleeding through my usher's uniform Behind the candy counter in the theater After a morning's surfing; paddling ...

Charles Simic: White (News)

(These are public search results on the terms: 'Charles Simic: White poem')

Money and the Pursuit of Poetry - Valley News (2013/05/24 01:02)
Money and the Pursuit of PoetryValley NewsMoney works at home although he also maintains a small space in White River Junction; his home office is a warren of papers and books, from the floor almost to the ceiling. The family moved to Vermont in 2001 after a long stint in ... One of the poets ...

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