“The time of minor poets is coming. Good-by Whitman, Dickinson, Frost. Welcome you whose fame will never reach beyond your closest family,… — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
“Never since the beginning of the world has there been so little light. Our winter afternoons have been known at times to… — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
We name one thing and then another. That’s how time enters poetry. Space, on the other hand, comes into being through the… — Charles Simic Copy Share Image
“Because the light is always with us and the hush of an early morning time propitious to plain speech space between the… — 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
