Sixty poems

Sixty Poems (Harcourt $12 112p ISBN 978015-603564-4) selects from Charles Simic's recent work (1986-2005) to commemorate this Pulitzer Prize-winning poet's assumption of the post of U.S. Poet Laureate. Intimate, often quirky, sometimes bleak lyrical vignettes artfully convey a political edginess in Simic's inimitably sardonic tone: "I accused History of gluttony; Happiness of anorexia!" This is a handy introduction to the work of a major poet at the peak of his popularity. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Not only has Simic recently been appointed the 15th poet laureate of the United States, but he has also received the Pulitzer Prize for poetry, a MacArthur Fellowship, and the Academy of American Poets' Wallace Stevens Award. Spanning about 20 years, from Simic's first book, Unending Blues (1986), to his latest, My Noiseless Entourage (2005), this collection represents some of Simic's best-loved poems. A pastiche bringing together disparate elements from Simic's childhood in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, to his adulthood in New Hampshire, these haunting poems look at the indifference to spiritual values that characterizes contemporary life. With borrowings from novels, children's books, and other poems, this book is reminiscent of art by Maurice Sendak. Like Sendak, Simic is adept at probing the emotional texture of dark moments. Playful, ironic, eerie, and dreamlike, the poems are accessible, although they have a surrealistic bent. As the poet roots into the unconscious mind, toys talk and ghosts appear, yet, surprisingly, the poems feel grounded because of Simic's eye for the evocative and just-right image. Highly recommended for all libraries.--Diane Scharper, Towson Univ., MD (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

From Unending Blues, 1986toward nightfallfor Don and JaneThe weight of tragic eventsOn everyones back,Just as tragedyIn the proper Greek senseWas thought impossibleTo compose in our day.There were scaffolds,Makeshift stages,Puny figures on them,Like small indistinct animalsCaught in the headlightsCrossing the road way ahead,In the gray twilightThat went on hesitatingOn the verge of a hugeStarless autumn night.One couldve been inThe back of an open truckHunkering because ofThe speed and chill.One couldve been walkingWith a sidelong glanceAt the many troubling shapesThe bare trees madeLike those about to shriek,But finding themselves unableTo utter a word now.One couldve been inOne of these dying mill townsInside a small dim groceryWhen the news broke.One wouldve drawn near the radioWith the one many months pregnantWho serves there at that hour.Was there a smell ofSpilled blood in the air,Or was it that other,Much finer scentof fear,The fear of approaching deathOne met on the empty street?Monsters on movie posters, too,Prominently displayed.Then, six factory girls,Arm in arm, laughingAs if theyve been drinking.At the very least, oneCouldve been one of them:The one with a mouthPainted bright red,Who feels out of sorts,For no reason, very pale,And so, excusing herself,Vanishes where it says:Rooms for Rent,And immediately goes to bed,Fully dressed, onlyTo lie with eyes open,Trembling, despite the covers.Its just a bad chill,She keeps telling herselfNot having seen the papersWhich the landlord has the dogBring from the front porch.The old man never learnedTo read well, and soReads on in that half-whisper,And in that half-lightVerging on the dark,About that days tragediesWhich supposedly are notTragedies in the absence ofFigures endowed withClassic nobility of soul.against whatever it is thats encroachingBest of all is to be idle,And especially on a Thursday,And to sip wine while studying the light:The way it ages, yellows, turns ashenAnd then hesitates foreverOn the threshold of the nightThat could be bringing the first frost.Its good to have a woman around just then,And two is even better.Let them whisper to each otherAnd eye you with a smirk.Let them roll up their sleeves and unbutton their shirts a bitAs this fine old twilight deserves,And the small schoolboyWho has come home to a room almost darkAnd now watches wide-eyedThe grown-ups raise their glasses to him,The giddy-headed, red-haired womanWith eyes tightly shut,As if she were about to cry or sing.Compilation copyright © 2007 by Charles SimicAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing f Excerpted from Sixty Poems by Charles Simic All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.