How strange you should be here at all, Charles Simic.
Your face like a twice cancelled postage stamp
Etching letters to sad philosophers— hunched beer-metaphysicians.
The silent three-fingered waiter fills your cup with Styx black liquid,
Poet laureate of coffee grounds.
Brian steps out to smoke a cigarette called American Spirit
Still smelling of oncology wards
To see your characters drawn like broken toy soldiers on the page.
Green jacket askew, running in Janus’ crisp dry moonlight
Surreptitiously admiring his blank image in the bookstore window.
Fumbling for the twenty in his corduroy pockets
Explaining with empathetic gaze that the author is real
But though kind-faced & red-haired, she has no mouth
So when he returns, the soldiers have all run from the pages.
Reviews
-
hey dc
i felt this was like an inside joke that i wasn't privy to. i've heard of charles simic but don't know who Brian is, i guess this is kind of an ode to old town chicago but thats as close to getting it as i could.
dave. Rewarded 4
-
-
Thanks for the comment, Dave. I realize that this poem is surreal and has quite a number of references to Simic's work. It's good to know that it was a little too opaque.
Actually, the poem is about a coffee shop in New Hampshire and a dream my friend, Brian shared with me. He dreamt he saw Charles Simic in a cafe and ran to the nearest bookstore to get a volume of Simic's work for me. The rest is made up and (I hope) dreamlike.
-
-
Well...
I agree it IS strange. But English is often best left to those learning it late.
Altogether none of it is stranger than these other mad, fierce and mouthless images. Nice... by which i mean neatly wrought. Best RA. Rewarded 4
January 23