[New-Poetry] Birthday boy/Simic

[Halvard Johnson]

I enjoy Simic too. But it's too bad he got stuck in that very
recognizable style he found fairly early.

Hal

"Any man who goes to a psychiatrist
  should have his head examined."
    		     --Samuel Goldwyn

Halvard Johnson
================
halvard at earthlink.net
http://home.earthlink.net/~halvard
http://entropyandme.blogspot.com
http://imageswithoutwords.blogspot.com
http://www.hamiltonstone.org

On May 9, 2006, at 11:08 AM, David Graham wrote:

> Charles Simic is 68 years old today.
>
> I never would have predicted this years ago when he was part of a  
> large pack of up-and-comers I paid attention to, but somehow his  
> work has been for me one of the most reliable pleasures in  
> contemporary poetry.  With poets born in the 1930s, I return to his  
> poems much more often than I do to those of James Tate, Mark  
> Strand, Frank Bidart, Diane Wakoski, Michael Harper, Marvin Bell,  
> Margaret Atwood, and others--despite or perhaps because  it is so  
> reliable.  He found a very recognizable style fairly early, and  
> stuck with it.  Rather like Russell Edson and Lucille Clifton,  
> other poets from that generation whose work has aged well.
>
>
> Have You Met Miss Jones?
>
> I have.  At the funeral
> Pulling down her skirt to cover her knees
> While inadvertently
> Showing us her cleavage
> Down to the tip of her nipples,
>
> A complete stranger, wobbly on her heels,
> Negotiating the exit
> With the assembled mourners
> Eyeing her rear end
> with visible interest.
>
> Presidential hopefuls
> Will continue to lie to the people
> As we sit here bowed.
> New hatreds will sweep the globe
> Faster than the weather.
> Sewer rats will sniff around
> Lit cash machines
> While we sigh over the departed.
>
> And her beauty will live on, no matter
> What any one of these black-clad,
> Grim veterans of every wake,
> Every prison gate and crucifixion,
> Sputters about her discourtesy.
>
> Miss Jones, you'll be safe
> With the insomniacs,
> You'll triumph
> Where they pour wine from a bottle
> Wrapped in a white napkin,
> Eat sausage with pan-fried potatoes,
> And grow misty-eyed remembering
>
> The way you walked past the open coffin,
> Past the stiff with his nose in the air
> Taking his long siesta.
> A cute little number an old man said,
> But who was she?
> Miss Jones, the guest book proclaimed.
>
> --Charles Simic.  Walking the Black Cat.  Harcourt, 1996.
>
>
> ==========================================
> David Graham
> grahamd at ripon.edu
> Home Page:
> http://www.ripon.edu/faculty/GrahamD/index.html
> Poetry Library:
> http://www.ripon.edu/faculty/GrahamD/poetrylib.html
> ==========================================
>
>
>
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