Charles Simic writes pomes. I've been reading them lately, specifically the book The Voice at 3:00 A.M. He has been writing them longer than we have. We're pretty damn good, I think, but this book is awesome. These two pomes were memorable:
Dear philosophers, I get sad when I think.
Is it the same with you?
Just as I'm about to sink my teeth into the noumenon,
Some old girlfriend comes to distract me.
"She's not even alive!" I yell to the skies.
The wintry light made me go that way.
I saw beds covered with identical gray blankets.
I saw grim-looking men holding a naked woman
While they hosed her with cold water.
Was that to calm her nerves, or was it punishment?
I went to visit my friend Bob, who said to me:
"We reach the real by overcoming the seduction of images."
I was overjoyed, until I realized
Such abstinence will never be possible for me.
I caught myself looking out the window.
Bob's father was taking their dog for a walk.
He moved with pain; the dog waited for him.
There was no one else in the park,
Only bare trees with an infinity of tragic shapes
To make thinking difficult.
She was about to chop the head
But I made her reconsider
By telling her:
"Cabbage symbolizes mysterious love."
Or so said one Charles Fourier,
Who said many other strange and wonderful things,
So that people called him mad behind his back,
Whereupon I kissed the back of her neck
Ever so gently,
Whereupon she cut the cabbage in two
With a single stroke of her knife.