If I believe in anything, it is in the dark night of the soul. Awe is my religion, and mystery is its church. — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
“Lyric poets are always corrupting the young, making them choke in self-pity and indulge in reverie. Dirty sex and direspect for authority is what… — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
“There’s a book called “A Dictionary of Angels.” No one has opened it in fifty years, I know, because when I did, The covers creaked, the pages Crumbled. There I discovered The angels were once as plentiful As species of flies. The sky at dusk Used to be thick with them. You had to wave both arms Just to keep… — Charles Simic Copy Share
Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them. — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
“The truth is dark under your eyelids. What are you going to do about it? The birds are silent; there's no one to ask. All day long you'll squint at the gray sky. When the wind blows you'll shiver like straw. A meek little lamb you grew your wool Till they came after you with huge shears. Flies hovered over… — Charles Simic Copy Share
In their effort to divorce language and experience, deconstructionist critics remind me of middle-class parents who do not allow their children to play in… — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
“The ambition of much of today's literary theory seems to be to find ways to read literature without imagination.” — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
“The Something" Here come my night thoughts On crutches, Returning from studying the heavens. What they thought about Stayed the same, Stayed immense and incomprehensible. My mother and father smile at each other Knowingly above the mantel. The cat sleeps on, the dog Growls in his sleep. The stove is cold and so is the bed. Now there are only… — Charles Simic Copy Share
There are knives that glitter like altars In a dark church Where they bring the cripple and the imbecile To be healed. There's a… — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
“هندوانه بودای سبز بر پیشخوان میوه فروش لبخندش را گاز میزنیم و دندانهایش را تف میکنیم :: Watermelons Green Buddhas On the fruit stand. We eat the smile And spit out the teeth.” — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
Words make love on the page like flies in the summer heat and the poet is only the bemused spectator. — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
