Stone

Photo credit: bekahboo42 from morguefile.com

Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger’s tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.

From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.
Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river;
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed,
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star-charts
On the inner walls.

~ Charles Simic

Stone

Photo credit: bekahboo42 from morguefile.com

Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger’s tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.

From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.
Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river;
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed,
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star-charts
On the inner walls.

~ Charles Simic

The Elusive Something

Photo credit: alvimann from morguefile.com

Was it in the smell of freshly baked bread

That came out to meet me in the street?

The face of a girl carrying a white dress

From the cleaners with her eyes half closed?

The sight of a building blackened by fire

Where once I went to look for work?

The toothless old man passing out leaflets

For a clothing store going out of business?

Or was it the woman pushing a baby carriage

About to turn the corner? I ran after,

As if the little one lying in it was known to me,

And found myself alone on a busy street

I didn't recognize, feeling like someone

Out for the first time after a long illness,

Who sees the world with his heart,

Then hurries home to forget how it felt.

~ Charles Simic

The Elusive Something

Photo credit: alvimann from morguefile.com

Was it in the smell of freshly baked bread

That came out to meet me in the street?

The face of a girl carrying a white dress

From the cleaners with her eyes half closed?

The sight of a building blackened by fire

Where once I went to look for work?

The toothless old man passing out leaflets

For a clothing store going out of business?

Or was it the woman pushing a baby carriage

About to turn the corner? I ran after,

As if the little one lying in it was known to me,

And found myself alone on a busy street

I didn't recognize, feeling like someone

Out for the first time after a long illness,

Who sees the world with his heart,

Then hurries home to forget how it felt.

~ Charles Simic

Past the Cemetery

Photo credit: Geert from morguefile.com 

It's nice here on the shady side of the street.

Our small, outdoor table

Faces a building

Golden with late afternoon sunlight

Under a cloudless summer sky.

Together with daily horrors,

Life doles out these small pleasures:

A platter of raw oysters on ice,

A ripe lemon sliced in half,

And a glass of chilled white wine.

If the couple holding hands at the next table

Are now in a hurry to leave,

Let them go ahead.

We'll linger over another bottle

And then go looking for a bed ourselves.

~ Charles Simic

____________________________________________

Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.

~ Søren Kierkegaard

Past the Cemetery

Photo credit: Geert from morguefile.com 

It's nice here on the shady side of the street.

Our small, outdoor table

Faces a building

Golden with late afternoon sunlight

Under a cloudless summer sky.

Together with daily horrors,

Life doles out these small pleasures:

A platter of raw oysters on ice,

A ripe lemon sliced in half,

And a glass of chilled white wine.

If the couple holding hands at the next table

Are now in a hurry to leave,

Let them go ahead.

We'll linger over another bottle

And then go looking for a bed ourselves.

~ Charles Simic

____________________________________________

Most men pursue pleasure with such breathless haste that they hurry past it.

~ Søren Kierkegaard

To The One Upstairs

Photo credit: phillwatson from morguefile.com

Boss of all bosses of the universe.

Mr. know-it-all, wheeler-dealer, wire-puller,

And whatever else you're good at.

Go ahead, shuffle your zeros tonight.

Dip in ink the comets' tails.

Staple the night with starlight.

You'd be better off reading coffee dregs,

Thumbing the pages of the Farmer's Almanac.

But no! You love to put on airs,

And cultivate your famous serenity

While you sit behind your big desk

With zilch in your in-tray, zilch

In your out-tray,

And all of eternity spread around you.

Doesn't it give you the creeps

To hear them begging you on their knees,

Sputtering endearments,

As if you were an inflatable, life-size doll?

Tell them to button up and go to bed.

Stop pretending you're too busy to take notice.

Your hands are empty and so are your eyes.

There's nothing to put your signature to,

Even if you knew your own name,

Or believed the ones I keep inventing,

As I scribble this note to you in the dark.

~ Charles Simic

__________________________________

No matter how much I prove and prod,

I cannot quite believe in God;

But oh, I hope to God that He

Unswervingly believes in me.

~ E.Y. Harburg (attributed)

To The One Upstairs

Photo credit: phillwatson from morguefile.com

Boss of all bosses of the universe.

Mr. know-it-all, wheeler-dealer, wire-puller,

And whatever else you're good at.

Go ahead, shuffle your zeros tonight.

Dip in ink the comets' tails.

Staple the night with starlight.

You'd be better off reading coffee dregs,

Thumbing the pages of the Farmer's Almanac.

But no! You love to put on airs,

And cultivate your famous serenity

While you sit behind your big desk

With zilch in your in-tray, zilch

In your out-tray,

And all of eternity spread around you.

Doesn't it give you the creeps

To hear them begging you on their knees,

Sputtering endearments,

As if you were an inflatable, life-size doll?

Tell them to button up and go to bed.

Stop pretending you're too busy to take notice.

Your hands are empty and so are your eyes.

There's nothing to put your signature to,

Even if you knew your own name,

Or believed the ones I keep inventing,

As I scribble this note to you in the dark.

~ Charles Simic

__________________________________

No matter how much I prove and prod,

I cannot quite believe in God;

But oh, I hope to God that He

Unswervingly believes in me.

~ E.Y. Harburg (attributed)