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
I was already dozing off in the shade, dreaming that the rustling trees were my many selves explaining themselves all at the same time so that I could not make out a single word. My life was a beautiful mystery… — 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… — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
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.… — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
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… — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
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
