Sixty Poems

by Charles Simic

  • Format: Paperback
  • ISBN-13/EAN: 9780156035644
  • ISBN-10: 0156035642
  • Pages: 112
  • Publication Date: 01/07/2008
  • Carton Quantity: 120

About the book

Here are sixty of Charles Simic's best known poems, collected to celebrate his appointment as the fifteenth Poet Laureate of the United States.

About the author
Charles Simic

CHARLES SIMIC was born in Belgrade and emigrated to the United States in 1954. He is the author of many books of poetry and prose. Among other honors, he received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1990 and served as the Poet Laureate of the United States in 2007–2008.


From Unending Blues, 1986

toward nightfall


for Don and Jane


The weight of tragic events

On everyone’s back,

Just as tragedy

In the proper Greek sense

Was thought impossible

To compose in our day.


There were scaffolds,

Makeshift stages,

Puny figures on them,

Like small indistinct animals

Caught in the headlights

Crossing the road way ahead,


In the gray twilight

That went on hesitating

On the verge of a huge

Starless autumn night.

One could’ve been in

The back of an open truck

Hunkering because of

The speed and chill.


One could’ve been walking

With a sidelong glance

At the many troubling shapes

The bare trees made—

Like those about to shriek,

But finding themselves unable

To utter a word now.


One could’ve been in

One of these dying mill towns

Inside a small dim grocery

When the news broke.

One would’ve drawn near the radio

With the one many months pregnant

Who serves there at that hour.


Was there a smell of

Spilled blood in the air,

Or was it that other,

Much finer scent—of fear,

The fear of approaching death

One met on the empty street?


Monsters on movie posters, too,

Prominently displayed.

Then, six factory girls,

Arm in arm, laughing

As if they’ve been drinking.

At the very least, one

Could’ve been one of them:


The one with a mouth

Painted bright red,

Who feels out of sorts,

For no reason, very pale,

And so, excusing herself,

Vanishes where it says:

Rooms for Rent,

And immediately goes to bed,

Fully dressed, only


To lie with eyes open,

Trembling, despite the covers.

It’s just a bad chill,

She keeps telling herself

Not having seen the papers

Which the landlord has the dog

Bring from the front porch.


The old man never learned

To read well, and so

Reads on in that half-whisper,

And in that half-light

Verging on the dark,

About that day’s tragedies

Which supposedly are not

Tragedies in the absence of

Figures endowed with

Classic nobility of soul.

against whatever it is that’s encroaching


Best of all is to be idle,

And especially on a Thursday,

And to sip wine while studying the light:

The way it ages, yellows, turns ashen

And then hesitates forever

On the threshold of the night

That could be bringing the first frost.


It’s good to have a woman around just then,

And two is even better.

Let them whisper to each other

And eye you with a smirk.

Let them roll up their sleeves and unbutton their shirts a bit


"The range of Charles Simic's imagination is evident in his stunning and unusual imagery. He handles language with the skill of a master craftsman, yet his poems are easily accessible, often meditative and surprising. He has given us a rich body of highly organized poetry with shades of darkness and flashes of ironic humor." --James H. Billington, Librarian of Congress  

"[Simic] draws on the dark satire of Central Europe, the sensual rhapsody of Latin America, and the fraught juxtapositions of French Surrealism, to create a style like nothing else in American literature. Yet [his] verse remains recognizably American--not just in its grainy, hard-boiled textures, straight out of 1940s film noir, but in the very confidence of its eclecticism." --Adam Kirsch, New York Sun