EVENING CHESS

The Black Queen raised high
In my father's angry hand.


FOLK SONGS

Sausage-makers of History,
The bloody kind,
You all hail from a village
Where the dog barking at the moon
Is the only poet.

*

O King Oedipus, O Hamlet,
Fallen like flies
In the pot of cabbage soup,
No use beating with your fists,
Or sticking your tongues out.

*

Christ-faced spider on the wall
Darkened by evening shadows,
I spent my childhood on a cross
In a yard full of weeds,
White butterflies, and white chickens.


THE CHAIR

This chair was once a student of Euclid.

The book of his laws lay on its seat.
The schoolhouse windows were open,
So the wind turned the pages
Whispering the glorious proofs.

The sun set over the golden roofs.
Everywhere the shadows lengthened,
But Euclid kept quiet about that.


BEAUTY

I'm telling you, this was the real thing, the same one they kicked out of Aesthetics, told her she didn't exist!

O you simple, indefinable, ineffable, and so forth. I like your black apron, and your new Chinese girl's hairdo. I also like naps in the afternoon, well-chilled white wine, and the squabbling of philosophers.

What joy and happiness you give us each time you reach over the counter to take our money, so we catch a whiff of your breath. You've been chewing on sesame crackers and garlic salami, divine creature!

When I heard the old man, Plotinus, say something about "every soul wanting to possess you," I gave him a dirty look, and rushed home to unwrap and kiss the pink ham you sliced for me with your own hand.

Thanks, Hugh!

I needed that. I'm in favor of regular doses of poetry here, administered by knowledgeable practitioners.

That's pretty good.

I'm not that familiar with Simic's work, but after those poems I think I'll definitely look him up.

It's interesting that his work seems so stylistically familiar. This is usually grounds for me to try and knock out a parody, but there's something deeply magical and effortless about how he uses words. I can sort of understand how he does it, but further investigation reveals that no - I've no clue.

Thanks la.

I really hate poetry, which is funny because I really love poetry, you know, words, artistic use of and that. Maybe I just hate poets, but no that's wrong too, because I am a friend of all the no-hopers and chronically unemployable. Maybe I hate people who like poetry, but that's wrong for obvious reasons. I think I must like poetry after all but I'm afraid to admit that I can't pay attention to it in the right way. Thanks, HJ, these are good.

Excellent! This one, nabbed from Plagiarist.org is one of my favorites of his.

Errata
Charles Simic

Where it says snow
read teeth-marks of a virgin
Where it says knife read
you passed through my bones
like a police-whistle
Where it says table read horse
Where it says horse read my migrant's bundle
Apples are to remain apples
Each time a hat appears
think of Isaac Newton
reading the Old Testament
Remove all periods
They are scars made by words
I couldn't bring myself to say
Put a finger over each sunrise
it will blind you otherwise
That damn ant is still stirring
Will there be time left to list
all errors to replace
all hands guns owls plates
all cigars ponds woods and reach
that beer-bottle my greatest mistake
the word I allowed to be written
when I should have shouted
her name

Thanks for this, HJ. Hits the spot like sausage and peppers. Here's the one I mentioned the other night as one of my favorites from Simic's new collection, my noiseless entourage:

TO DREAMS

I'm still living at all the old addresses,
Wearing dark glasses even indoors,
On the hush-hush sharing my bed
With phantoms, visiting the kitchen

After midnight to check the faucet.
I'm late for school, and when I get there
No one seems to recognize me.
I sit disowned, sequestered and withdrawn.

These small shops open only at night
Where I make my unobtrusive purchases,
These back-door movie houses in seedy neighborhoods
Still showing grainy films of my life.

The hero always full of extravagant hope
Losing it all in the end?--whatever it was--
Then walking out into the cold, disbelieving light
Waiting close-lipped at the exit.