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No Land in Sight: Poems
From one of America's most beloved poets, a piercing new collection reflecting on the characters and encounters that haunt us through this life and into the next
Leading us into a city stirring with gravediggers and beggars, lovers and dogs, Charles Simic returns with a brilliant collection full of his singular wit, dark humor, and tenderheartedness. In poems that are often as spare as they are monumental, he captures the fleeting moments of modern life—peering inside pawnshop windows, brushing shoulders with strangers on the street, and walking familiar cemetery rows—to uncover all the beauty and worry hiding in plain sight.
As the poet reflects on a lifetime’s worth of pleasure and loss, he recalls instances when he “made excuses and hurried away,” and considers the way memory always trails just behind. No Land in Sight is a testament to all we leave in our wake and, simultaneously, all we hang on the passing minutes, the evening’s stillness, and the many lives we inhabit in dim thresholds and bright mornings alike.
Leading us into a city stirring with gravediggers and beggars, lovers and dogs, Charles Simic returns with a brilliant collection full of his singular wit, dark humor, and tenderheartedness. In poems that are often as spare as they are monumental, he captures the fleeting moments of modern life—peering inside pawnshop windows, brushing shoulders with strangers on the street, and walking familiar cemetery rows—to uncover all the beauty and worry hiding in plain sight.
As the poet reflects on a lifetime’s worth of pleasure and loss, he recalls instances when he “made excuses and hurried away,” and considers the way memory always trails just behind. No Land in Sight is a testament to all we leave in our wake and, simultaneously, all we hang on the passing minutes, the evening’s stillness, and the many lives we inhabit in dim thresholds and bright mornings alike.
- GenresPoetry
96 pages, Hardcover
Published August 9, 2022
11 people are currently reading
228 people want to read
About the author
Charles Simic
256 books472 followersU.S. Poet Laureate, 2007-2008
Dušan Charles Simic was born in Belgrade, former Yugoslavia, on May 9, 1938. Simic’s childhood was complicated by the events of World War II. He moved to Paris with his mother when he was 15; a year later, they joined his father in New York and then moved to Oak Park, a suburb of Chicago, where he graduated from the same high school as Ernest Hemingway. Simic attended the University of Chicago, working nights in an office at the Chicago Sun Times, but was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1961 and served until 1963.
Simic is the author of more than 30 poetry collections, including The World Doesn’t End: Prose Poems (1989), which received the Pulitzer Prize; Jackstraws (1999); Selected Poems: 1963-2003 (2004), which received the International Griffin Poetry Prize; and Scribbled in the Dark (2017). He is also an essayist, translator, editor, and professor emeritus of creative writing and literature at the University of New Hampshire, where he taught for over 30 years.
Simic has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the MacArthur Foundation, the Academy of American Poets, and the National Endowment for the Arts. His other honors and awards include the Frost Medal, the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, and the PEN Translation Prize. He served as the 15th Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, and was elected as Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets in 2001. Simic has also been elected into the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
Dušan Charles Simic was born in Belgrade, former Yugoslavia, on May 9, 1938. Simic’s childhood was complicated by the events of World War II. He moved to Paris with his mother when he was 15; a year later, they joined his father in New York and then moved to Oak Park, a suburb of Chicago, where he graduated from the same high school as Ernest Hemingway. Simic attended the University of Chicago, working nights in an office at the Chicago Sun Times, but was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1961 and served until 1963.
Simic is the author of more than 30 poetry collections, including The World Doesn’t End: Prose Poems (1989), which received the Pulitzer Prize; Jackstraws (1999); Selected Poems: 1963-2003 (2004), which received the International Griffin Poetry Prize; and Scribbled in the Dark (2017). He is also an essayist, translator, editor, and professor emeritus of creative writing and literature at the University of New Hampshire, where he taught for over 30 years.
Simic has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the MacArthur Foundation, the Academy of American Poets, and the National Endowment for the Arts. His other honors and awards include the Frost Medal, the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, and the PEN Translation Prize. He served as the 15th Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, and was elected as Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets in 2001. Simic has also been elected into the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
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August 12, 2022
I can’t think about poetry and not think of Charles Simic and the poetic influence he has had on my life. When first really exploring more contemporary poetry, spending hours in the university library or tucked away in the corner of a bookstore, Charles Simic always seemed to really speak to me. One of my closest friend’s and I first bonded over our shared love for Simic, he having a cat named after him, and I began to comb used bookstores for single volumes for all his works. His poetry has a darkly tender quality to them with noir vibes of shadowy figures in grimy streets, existential investigations of memory and the self, or the way he always makes trees so frightening yet compelling. All of this is done with humor that touches upon both the absurd or gallows humor, his poems sending a chill through you while also uplifting. Perhaps it’s the way he can construct a perfect image out of the unexpected, shifting our perspective on ideas and experiences to probe new depths of understanding from abstract vantage points. Simic has been a great influence over my own writing as well as lead me to explore many of his contemporaries such as James Tate, Mark Strand, or Russell Edson. You could really say discovering Simic was like my big bang for my poetic universe, paired with simultaneously becoming enamored with the works of Jane Hirshfield.
After over 20 books of poetry and several translations, Charles Simic, now aged 84, certainly is not ‘a star calling it quits /After millions of years’ as he continues to release a new volume every few years. This year we are graced with No Land in Sight, a slim little book where it seems Simic has found the shortcut to the imagery he seeks. Simic has always been gifted at capturing so much into a single image that implies vast implications and with his last few books it seems like he is condensing entire poems into a few words as possible with many poems being only a handful of lines (the shortest one here is only one line). He has always described a poem as positioning words like pieces on a chessboard for maximum effect, and it appears these are to him his fastest route to victory.
It does, however, sometimes feel like we are left outside wondering how much to overthink the short images which, admittedly, feel a bit slight at times. I’m reminded of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s phrase that ‘he must, so to speak, throw away the ladder after he has climbed up it,’ with some of these poems, feeling like Simic has succinctly crawled into the space but left only the tiniest windows for us to gaze at him inside warming himself by the fire. Though I also suspect this is Sonic living up to his own statement that a poem should be like a bank robbery: get in, get everyone’s attention and get out fast to maximum effect. Some of my favorite Simic has been his one liners in books like The Monster Loves His Labyrinth, though here the shorter ones don’t always feel as fresh, but still fun.
His surprising imagery is sharp as ever, such as describing a sunrise ‘as if a witch or a holy martyr / Were being burnt at the stake,’ in his signature blend of religious and violent imagery being folded into ordinary daily life. The content of the poems is to be expected at this point, and his poem My City here serves as a good description of his poetry in general (here in full):
With its dimly lit streets
From black-and-white movies,
Trashy mystery novels,
And destitute people
Shivering in its doorways.’
Simic always has a good grasp on unsteady emotions and never fails to hit my heart as well as my mind. I enjoyed seeing his reflections on current life, such as his poem about COVID lockdowns where he lovingly writes about solitude:
IN THE LOCKDOWN
I might have gone stir-crazy,
If not for my memores,
Those lifelong companions
Cooped up with me for months
And eager to console me
With stories of men and women
Who withdraw from the world,
And endured years of solitude
And dark nights of the soul
Thriving in some hole-in-the-wall
Where they found lasting peace
Obeying a voice in their heads
Telling them to just sit quietly,
So that the quiet can teach them
Everything they ought to know
Simic does also seem hyper-aware of his own mortality here—death is never far away in a Simic poem—but he approaches it like reminiscing with an old friend. The devil, a frequent figure in his poems, always reads like a charming acquaintance and Simic pushes into his mid-80s with a smirk. ‘Blessed are those / For whom time / Doesn't run,’ he writes, ’But drags its feet.’ To Simic life is always an adventure into the darkness and time seems to honor his glee in his poetry. Simic is one of the last of his poetry circles, and I’m glad he is still publishing.
MY POSSESSIONS
I have lots of dead friends
And streets I roam at all hours
With eyes open or shut,
Hoping to run into them.
I have many address books
With crossed-out names,
Two clocks and a dozen wristwatches
I haven't heard tick in years.
I have a large black umbrella
I am scared to open indoors,
As well as when I step outdoors,
No matter how hard it rains.
Like a cobbler lost in a shoe
He is repairing, I rarely look up
From what I am doing,
One foot in the grave, of course.
‘the last time someone saw me,’ Simic writes, ‘I was reading the Bible on the subway, / Shaking my head and chuckling to myself.’ This image is an apt description of this collection, something curious you may feel a little outside of, but it is clear he is continuing on with glee. It is a bit of a light collection yet it is classic Simic and while I’ve wandered into other areas of poetry that I find more engaging to me now, he will always hold a special place in my heart. Those looking for an entry point into Simic might do better with Walking the Black Cat or My Noiseless Entourage: Poems, my two favorites. Long live, Charles Simic.
3.5/5
Is my star rating slightly inflated? Probably. Do I stand by it? Yes, yes I do.
THE WIND HAS DIED
My little boat,
Take care.
There is no
Land in sight.
After over 20 books of poetry and several translations, Charles Simic, now aged 84, certainly is not ‘a star calling it quits /After millions of years’ as he continues to release a new volume every few years. This year we are graced with No Land in Sight, a slim little book where it seems Simic has found the shortcut to the imagery he seeks. Simic has always been gifted at capturing so much into a single image that implies vast implications and with his last few books it seems like he is condensing entire poems into a few words as possible with many poems being only a handful of lines (the shortest one here is only one line). He has always described a poem as positioning words like pieces on a chessboard for maximum effect, and it appears these are to him his fastest route to victory.
It does, however, sometimes feel like we are left outside wondering how much to overthink the short images which, admittedly, feel a bit slight at times. I’m reminded of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s phrase that ‘he must, so to speak, throw away the ladder after he has climbed up it,’ with some of these poems, feeling like Simic has succinctly crawled into the space but left only the tiniest windows for us to gaze at him inside warming himself by the fire. Though I also suspect this is Sonic living up to his own statement that a poem should be like a bank robbery: get in, get everyone’s attention and get out fast to maximum effect. Some of my favorite Simic has been his one liners in books like The Monster Loves His Labyrinth, though here the shorter ones don’t always feel as fresh, but still fun.
His surprising imagery is sharp as ever, such as describing a sunrise ‘as if a witch or a holy martyr / Were being burnt at the stake,’ in his signature blend of religious and violent imagery being folded into ordinary daily life. The content of the poems is to be expected at this point, and his poem My City here serves as a good description of his poetry in general (here in full):
With its dimly lit streets
From black-and-white movies,
Trashy mystery novels,
And destitute people
Shivering in its doorways.’
Simic always has a good grasp on unsteady emotions and never fails to hit my heart as well as my mind. I enjoyed seeing his reflections on current life, such as his poem about COVID lockdowns where he lovingly writes about solitude:
IN THE LOCKDOWN
I might have gone stir-crazy,
If not for my memores,
Those lifelong companions
Cooped up with me for months
And eager to console me
With stories of men and women
Who withdraw from the world,
And endured years of solitude
And dark nights of the soul
Thriving in some hole-in-the-wall
Where they found lasting peace
Obeying a voice in their heads
Telling them to just sit quietly,
So that the quiet can teach them
Everything they ought to know
Simic does also seem hyper-aware of his own mortality here—death is never far away in a Simic poem—but he approaches it like reminiscing with an old friend. The devil, a frequent figure in his poems, always reads like a charming acquaintance and Simic pushes into his mid-80s with a smirk. ‘Blessed are those / For whom time / Doesn't run,’ he writes, ’But drags its feet.’ To Simic life is always an adventure into the darkness and time seems to honor his glee in his poetry. Simic is one of the last of his poetry circles, and I’m glad he is still publishing.
MY POSSESSIONS
I have lots of dead friends
And streets I roam at all hours
With eyes open or shut,
Hoping to run into them.
I have many address books
With crossed-out names,
Two clocks and a dozen wristwatches
I haven't heard tick in years.
I have a large black umbrella
I am scared to open indoors,
As well as when I step outdoors,
No matter how hard it rains.
Like a cobbler lost in a shoe
He is repairing, I rarely look up
From what I am doing,
One foot in the grave, of course.
‘the last time someone saw me,’ Simic writes, ‘I was reading the Bible on the subway, / Shaking my head and chuckling to myself.’ This image is an apt description of this collection, something curious you may feel a little outside of, but it is clear he is continuing on with glee. It is a bit of a light collection yet it is classic Simic and while I’ve wandered into other areas of poetry that I find more engaging to me now, he will always hold a special place in my heart. Those looking for an entry point into Simic might do better with Walking the Black Cat or My Noiseless Entourage: Poems, my two favorites. Long live, Charles Simic.
3.5/5
Is my star rating slightly inflated? Probably. Do I stand by it? Yes, yes I do.
THE WIND HAS DIED
My little boat,
Take care.
There is no
Land in sight.
January 10, 2023
THE WIND HAS DIED
My little boat,
Take care.
There is no
Land in sight.
RIP (1938-2023)
My little boat,
Take care.
There is no
Land in sight.
RIP (1938-2023)
August 29, 2022
The poems in No Land in Sight include those whose vivid imagery imprinted on my brain.
Tango
Slinky black dress
On a wire hanger
In an empty closet
its door slid open
To catch the draft
From an open window
And make it dance
As in a deep trance
The empty hangers
Clicking in unison
Like knitting needles
Or disapproving tongues.
from No Land in Sight by Charles Simic
And poems of insight into the common experience.
In the Lockdown
I might have gone stir-crazy,
If not for my memories,
Those lifelong companions
Cooped up with me for months
And eager to console me
With stories of men and women
Who withdraw from the world,
And endured years of solitude
And dark nights of the soul
Thriving in some hole-in-the-wall
Where they found lasting peace
Obeying a voice in their heads
Telling them to just sit quietly,
So that the quiet can teach them
Everything they ought to know.
from No Land in Sight by Charles Simi
There are personal memories of a life unlike my own.
Where Do My Gallows Stand?
Outside the window
I looked out as a child
In an occupied city
Quiet as a graveyard.
from No Land in Sight by Charles Simic
Many of the poems are reductions that pack a punch bigger than their size would indicate. Charles Simic writes of quietly falling snow, dogs barking in the night, the hopefulness of an old woman going to the mailbox. Commonplace visions reveal depths of emotion, a few overheard words paint a portrait.
The opening poem is Fate, consisting of one line: “everyone’s blind date.” We ruefully chuckle.
At first I was puzzled by these poems, seemingly so direct and transparent. As I read on, I realized their beauty and truth. I will seek out his earlier work.
I received a free book from A A Knopf. My review is fair and unbiased.
Tango
Slinky black dress
On a wire hanger
In an empty closet
its door slid open
To catch the draft
From an open window
And make it dance
As in a deep trance
The empty hangers
Clicking in unison
Like knitting needles
Or disapproving tongues.
from No Land in Sight by Charles Simic
And poems of insight into the common experience.
In the Lockdown
I might have gone stir-crazy,
If not for my memories,
Those lifelong companions
Cooped up with me for months
And eager to console me
With stories of men and women
Who withdraw from the world,
And endured years of solitude
And dark nights of the soul
Thriving in some hole-in-the-wall
Where they found lasting peace
Obeying a voice in their heads
Telling them to just sit quietly,
So that the quiet can teach them
Everything they ought to know.
from No Land in Sight by Charles Simi
There are personal memories of a life unlike my own.
Where Do My Gallows Stand?
Outside the window
I looked out as a child
In an occupied city
Quiet as a graveyard.
from No Land in Sight by Charles Simic
Many of the poems are reductions that pack a punch bigger than their size would indicate. Charles Simic writes of quietly falling snow, dogs barking in the night, the hopefulness of an old woman going to the mailbox. Commonplace visions reveal depths of emotion, a few overheard words paint a portrait.
The opening poem is Fate, consisting of one line: “everyone’s blind date.” We ruefully chuckle.
At first I was puzzled by these poems, seemingly so direct and transparent. As I read on, I realized their beauty and truth. I will seek out his earlier work.
I received a free book from A A Knopf. My review is fair and unbiased.
April 27, 2023
Such a gifted poet
Who has an extremely interesting personal life journey
Who has an extremely interesting personal life journey
August 23, 2022
Thank you so much @aaknopf for sending me the most powerful poetry collection I've read in years!
The poenms in Charles Simic's NO LAND IN SIGHT are so laconic yet still so eloquent an full of meaning. From the quietness of the softly falling snow to the roughness of a sea determined to drown unhappy lovers, no poem in this collection will leave the reader indifferent.
They were published in literary magazines like The New Yorker, The Threepenny Review and The Southern Review, among others. This books is essential for poetry lovers but even if you don't read poetry often, this book will make you fall in love with it.
The poenms in Charles Simic's NO LAND IN SIGHT are so laconic yet still so eloquent an full of meaning. From the quietness of the softly falling snow to the roughness of a sea determined to drown unhappy lovers, no poem in this collection will leave the reader indifferent.
They were published in literary magazines like The New Yorker, The Threepenny Review and The Southern Review, among others. This books is essential for poetry lovers but even if you don't read poetry often, this book will make you fall in love with it.
February 13, 2023
The best book of poetry I’ve read in a while. Quiet and wise. An old master of the game gets even better.
September 3, 2022
For fans of Simic, familiar with his usual magic. A book of poems like a box of cookies open on the counter. The only poem that made me sad was the last.
October 27, 2022
[Read October 2022. 3.5 stars. Pretty-good stuff!]
This is Charles Simic’s newest collection, published August 2022. When I got it from the library and noticed its minimal heft, my initial thought was, I’m glad I didn’t pay $28 for it ($37, unfortunate Canadians!) Few of these 73 poems are longer than half a page, and most seem to be between four and about twelve lines. Here’s the opener, three mere words (plus the one-word title, included absolutely free! if you act now, our representatives are standing by …)
FATE
Everyone’s blind date.
Pretty cool, actually, right? Short but sweet …‘quality not quantity’ and all that jazz. I can picture it on the bumper of my car, which normally has nothing to say. Strangers honk their car horns in approval, roll down their windows and yell, “Yeah!”) Well, maybe not the latter. But I like it.
Save for the addition of titles (the title of the second example being arguably the best part), a few have almost the look, ambience, and themes of haikus. Take these two:
THERE IS NOTHING QUIETER
Than the softly falling snow
Fretting over each flake
And making sure
It doesn’t wake someone.
MY LIFE IS AS REAL AS YOURS
Said the cricket
In the thicket
As the summer ended
And night fell.
………..
Some incompletes. A few random stanzas. I quite like this pack of cards/gambler simile, especially the last line …
Blood-curling screams
Riding up and down
On the Ferris wheel.
Faces like a pack of cards
Tossed in the air by a gambler
Who just lost his pants.
…..
And in these stanzas are alternate looks at the ordinary. Birds from hell. So that’s where they go in the winter ...
COME SPRING
Don’t let that birdie in a tree
Fool you with its pretty song,
The wicked are back from hell
Doing all the vicious things
That had them sent down below
…….…
As with this one, (complete), mere reflections are not-so mere:
RAINY EVENING
Someone catching sight
Of his reflection in a store window
Impersonating a person
With blood and guts
Fleeing from someone,
Yet afraid to look back
At the one in hot pursuit
With no more substance
Than a ghost picture
On black-and-white TV
In his dead parent’s bedroom,
With its station off the air.
…………
Two of the poems are about alarm clocks. And at least three are rants about barking dogs. Poetry as a means to vent frustration, I hear you, Mr. Simic, and I hear the dogs as well. But me, basking in appointments-not-necessary mode, I rarely set an alarm anymore.
Just last month I read his Pulitzer-winning collection, No World In Sight. (3.5 stars). https://www.goodreads.com/review/show... That was my introduction to Simic (thank you, s. penkevich). Those are more like prose poems, and none have titles. While neither collection was a challenge at all, some of No World were relatively more enigmatic. Initially, I thought I preferred No World, but having read every poem in this new collection several times (which is easy to do, given how short they are), on second thought, I’m rating them equally. (3.5 stars). There were several that seemed a bit flimsy and left little impression. But there are enough winners to make this a worthwhile read.
This is Charles Simic’s newest collection, published August 2022. When I got it from the library and noticed its minimal heft, my initial thought was, I’m glad I didn’t pay $28 for it ($37, unfortunate Canadians!) Few of these 73 poems are longer than half a page, and most seem to be between four and about twelve lines. Here’s the opener, three mere words (plus the one-word title, included absolutely free! if you act now, our representatives are standing by …)
FATE
Everyone’s blind date.
Pretty cool, actually, right? Short but sweet …‘quality not quantity’ and all that jazz. I can picture it on the bumper of my car, which normally has nothing to say. Strangers honk their car horns in approval, roll down their windows and yell, “Yeah!”) Well, maybe not the latter. But I like it.
Save for the addition of titles (the title of the second example being arguably the best part), a few have almost the look, ambience, and themes of haikus. Take these two:
THERE IS NOTHING QUIETER
Than the softly falling snow
Fretting over each flake
And making sure
It doesn’t wake someone.
MY LIFE IS AS REAL AS YOURS
Said the cricket
In the thicket
As the summer ended
And night fell.
………..
Some incompletes. A few random stanzas. I quite like this pack of cards/gambler simile, especially the last line …
Blood-curling screams
Riding up and down
On the Ferris wheel.
Faces like a pack of cards
Tossed in the air by a gambler
Who just lost his pants.
…..
And in these stanzas are alternate looks at the ordinary. Birds from hell. So that’s where they go in the winter ...
COME SPRING
Don’t let that birdie in a tree
Fool you with its pretty song,
The wicked are back from hell
Doing all the vicious things
That had them sent down below
…….…
As with this one, (complete), mere reflections are not-so mere:
RAINY EVENING
Someone catching sight
Of his reflection in a store window
Impersonating a person
With blood and guts
Fleeing from someone,
Yet afraid to look back
At the one in hot pursuit
With no more substance
Than a ghost picture
On black-and-white TV
In his dead parent’s bedroom,
With its station off the air.
…………
Two of the poems are about alarm clocks. And at least three are rants about barking dogs. Poetry as a means to vent frustration, I hear you, Mr. Simic, and I hear the dogs as well. But me, basking in appointments-not-necessary mode, I rarely set an alarm anymore.
Just last month I read his Pulitzer-winning collection, No World In Sight. (3.5 stars). https://www.goodreads.com/review/show... That was my introduction to Simic (thank you, s. penkevich). Those are more like prose poems, and none have titles. While neither collection was a challenge at all, some of No World were relatively more enigmatic. Initially, I thought I preferred No World, but having read every poem in this new collection several times (which is easy to do, given how short they are), on second thought, I’m rating them equally. (3.5 stars). There were several that seemed a bit flimsy and left little impression. But there are enough winners to make this a worthwhile read.
February 11, 2025
Outside the window
I looked out as a child
In an occupied city
Quiet as a graveyard.
-- "Where Do My Gallows Stand?"
An alarm clock
With no hands
Ticking loudly
On the town dump.
-- "Could That Be Me?"
As for me, the last time someone saw me,
I was reading the Bible on the subway,
Shaking my head and chuckling to myself.
-- "My Doubles"
Said the cricket
In the thicket
As the summer ended
And night fell.
-- "My Life Is as Real as Yours"
I looked out as a child
In an occupied city
Quiet as a graveyard.
-- "Where Do My Gallows Stand?"
Does the loud ticking
Of my alarm clock keep you awake?
Do you lie thinking
The stars in the sky
Were a big mistake?
-- "Dear Lord"
An alarm clock
With no hands
Ticking loudly
On the town dump.
-- "Could That Be Me?"
The devil plays the harp
Like an angel in heaven,
And the slide trombone
Like a hot Dixieland band.
-- "When in the Mood"
As for me, the last time someone saw me,
I was reading the Bible on the subway,
Shaking my head and chuckling to myself.
-- "My Doubles"
The night is dark,
Even though later
There may be stars
Astounded to see us here.
-- "Hoot, Little Owl"
Said the cricket
In the thicket
As the summer ended
And night fell.
-- "My Life Is as Real as Yours"
January 18, 2023
RIP Charles Simic! I happened to serendipitously be reading this at the time of Simic's death. I was initially a bit hesitant about this collection-- some of the poems felt a little 'first impression-y' or tossed off in the way that older, established poets sometimes can be, but as I went along, the cohesive vision of this collection grew more substantial in my eye. Many of the poems have a strong noirish quality, as if an aging detective was wandering a greyscale metropolis. A particular obsession with noting houseless people still seems a bit retrograde, but not necessarily mean-spirited. As the collection goes on, the poems turn to more general observations on aging and loss, and the tenderness and askant humor of these poems really works to balance out the harder edge of the earlier poems
August 13, 2022
Simic ♥️
1.NOVEMBER
The crosses all men and women
Must carry through life
Even more visible
On this dark and rainy night.
*
2.NIGHT THOUGHTS
Light frightens them. Darkness too.
They crawl into our beds,
Not to talk, but to whisper
The way one does in the morgue.
*
3.EL MAGNIFICO
These trees have been put under a spell
By some master of the art
Who pointed a finger at them
And ordered them to be still
As they’ve done so ever since,
Spooking the birds not to tweet,
The million leaves not to fidget
One long and hot summer day
Till he dons his black cape
And top hat and makes his exit
Under the cover of darkness.
*
4.THE WIND HAS DIED
My little boat,
Take care.
There is no
Land in sight.
*
February 20, 2023
Not my favorite kind of poetry, not lyrical or pulling on my heartstrings or anything. But hey, it was a nice way to spend some free time this weekend.
The Insomniac
Seeing you gloomy like this,
On a swell June night,
You are either a village idiot
Or a god of some cursed tribe.
Some Folks Out Late
Earlier there'd been talk of war
And of the fine weather we are having,
When the night fell suddenly
Blurring our faces on the porch
With what remained unspoken
In the thickening darkness,
A lake of blood still visible,
Where the sun had just gone down.
The Wind Has Died
My little boat,
Take care.
There is no
Land in sight.
The Insomniac
Seeing you gloomy like this,
On a swell June night,
You are either a village idiot
Or a god of some cursed tribe.
Some Folks Out Late
Earlier there'd been talk of war
And of the fine weather we are having,
When the night fell suddenly
Blurring our faces on the porch
With what remained unspoken
In the thickening darkness,
A lake of blood still visible,
Where the sun had just gone down.
The Wind Has Died
My little boat,
Take care.
There is no
Land in sight.
September 20, 2022
I enjoyed the short and absurd narrative poems. THE MIRAGE stood out for me in that way. Like the poem, THE WIND HAS DIED, I also very much enjoyed NIGHT THOUGHTS; it is similar in tone: mixing the sweet with the morbid, or tragic, and spoken casually, almost naively.
That little poem is my favourite. Others I liked: NIGHT THOUGHTS; TANGO; MY DOUBLES; LOOKING FOR TROUBLE; THE MIRAGE; MY POSSESSIONS; DREAMING OR AWAKE?
THE WIND HAS DIED
My little boat,
Take care.
There is no
Land in sight.
That little poem is my favourite. Others I liked: NIGHT THOUGHTS; TANGO; MY DOUBLES; LOOKING FOR TROUBLE; THE MIRAGE; MY POSSESSIONS; DREAMING OR AWAKE?
January 19, 2024
this collection gives off same vibes as 'josephine' by lisa hannigan,
beautiful beautiful beautiful.
the author's voice was strong in this one, making me fall in love with this body of work even more.
my favs: november, family graveyard, on york beach, sunrise, looking for trouble, memories of hell, i've been thinking of, the insomniac, some folks out late, the crow, come spring, in the lockdown, dark window.
beautiful beautiful beautiful.
the author's voice was strong in this one, making me fall in love with this body of work even more.
my favs: november, family graveyard, on york beach, sunrise, looking for trouble, memories of hell, i've been thinking of, the insomniac, some folks out late, the crow, come spring, in the lockdown, dark window.
March 17, 2024
In his last collection he writes with such economy about both the sheer stupidity of the world and its utter beauty. Tiny four line poems have the brevity of a great haiku and the depth of meaning and feeling. ‘What’s left out of the Bible’, for example, is both very funny, a wonderful slant on the establishment of patriarchy in the Bible, and paints it as a very ordinary domestic scene. Simply a wonderful poet and such a wise human being.
December 4, 2023
No real strong thoughts to share here... Very much enjoyed this- was my second collection of Simic. Enjoyed a lot of the shorter poems in this one! Often very visually and emotionally striking with the use of only a few lines. His unique use of humor and irony to discuss topics of great seriousness/darkness is what I find most engaging in his work so far.
November 14, 2024
This is a book of poems about the author's reflections on modern day life for him. The poems are short, the book is short, so this is a book that you will get through fast. I really liked his poems and they were easy to get and comprehend. There was a lightness to them and I didn't feel like I had to dig deep for the meaning.
May 26, 2023
Rest in peace to one of the greats. His final book, like his last many books, is full of brief poems and sparse observations. Often touching, often funny, often up late at night, pondering the impending inevitable. Simic was one of the good ones. What a monstrous and wondrous body of work.
September 19, 2023
A poet indirectly recommended by a friend, but I'm not so sure if he's the one for me. The poems are almost too simply, though there were still a couple a dog-eared to come back to.
I'm sure there's deeper meaning in all of his poems, I just couldn't really grasp it.
I'm sure there's deeper meaning in all of his poems, I just couldn't really grasp it.
December 13, 2024
Succinct and devastating, just how I like it.
“I have lots of dead friends
And streets I roam at all hours
With eyes open or shut,
Hoping to run into them.
I have many address books
With crossed-out names,
Two dozen clocks and a dozen wristwatches
I haven’t heard tick in years.”
“I have lots of dead friends
And streets I roam at all hours
With eyes open or shut,
Hoping to run into them.
I have many address books
With crossed-out names,
Two dozen clocks and a dozen wristwatches
I haven’t heard tick in years.”
December 30, 2024
This is another fine collection of poems by Simic. His work is usually compact, pointed, a bit surreal, and leaves me shaking my head in wonder, although I suspect he may not connect at all with some readers.
January 30, 2025
¿Por qué la traductora de la edición de Vaso Roto se toma la atribución de "corregir" gramaticalmente las frases del original? Pésima traducción de estas contempladoras capturas de la tragicómica singularidad de lo cotidiano.
February 4, 2025
Four and a half stars
A box of small, but perfectly formed, delights: both witty and surreal. Although these poems sometimes appear frivolous, they often have very deep things to say
A box of small, but perfectly formed, delights: both witty and surreal. Although these poems sometimes appear frivolous, they often have very deep things to say
October 3, 2022
Roasted butternut squash with wild rice and dried cranberries. For the third day.
I love it, and am not quite as excited as I once was. Needs salt? Not sure.
I love it, and am not quite as excited as I once was. Needs salt? Not sure.
Read
November 7, 2022(2.5 stars)
Sort of like great bread gone stale.
Sort of like great bread gone stale.
Read
November 21, 2022One of my favorite poets, and another outstanding book. Dark, witty, and filled with urban imagery.
February 3, 2023
The last collection by one of my favorite poets, who passed away recently. Many of the poems are short (four lines) and resound with Simic's often startling imagery and wit.
February 15, 2023
An eclectic collection of poems depicting the seedier and sadder parts of everyday life, and the mundane.
May 7, 2023
This was my first time reading Charles Simic. A great book of poetry. I really enjoyed it.
June 24, 2023
I wanted to like it, but it's one of those books that has to hit you at the right moment and this was not that moment for me. I found the poems too cute and twee.
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