DECEMBER It snows and still the derelicts go carrying sandwich boards- one proclaiming the end of the world the other the rates of a local barbershop. EARLY EVENING ALGEBRA The madwoman went marking X's With a piece of school chalk On the backs of unsuspecting Hand-holding, homebound couples. It was winter. It was dark already. One could not see her face Bundled up as she was and furtive. She went as if wind-swept, as if crow-winged. The chalk must have been given to her by a child. One kept looking for him in the crowd, Expecting him to be very pale, very serious, With a chip of black slate in his pocket. 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. WILLIAM AND CYNTHIA Says she'll take him to the Museum Of Dead Ideas and Emotions. Wonders that he hasn't been there yet. Says it looks like a Federal courthouse With its many steps and massive columns. Apparently not many people go there On such drizzly gray afternoons. Says even she gets afraid In the large empty exhibition halls With monstrous ideas in glass cases, Naked emotions on stone pedestals In classically provocative poses. Says she doesn't understand why he claims All that reminds him of a country fair. Admits there's a lot of old dust And the daylight is the color of sepia, Just like on this picture postcard With its two lovers chastely embracing Against a painted cardboard sunset. AT THE NIGHT COURT You've combed yourself carefully, Your Honor, with a small fine-tooth comb You then cleverly concealed Before making your entrance In the splendor of your black robes. The comb tucked inside a handkerchief Scented with the extract of dead roses- While you took your high seat Sternly eyeing each of the accused In the hush of the empty courtroom. The dark curly hairs in the comb Did not come from your graying head. One of the cleaning women used it on herself While you dozed off in your chambers Half undressed because of the heat. The black comb in the pocket over the heart, You feel it tremble just as ours do When they ready themselves to make music Lacking only the paper you're signing, By the looks of it, with eyes closed. FIRST FROST The time of the year for the mystics. October sky and the Cloud of Unknowing. The routes of eternity beckoning. Sign and enigma in the humblest of things. Master cobbler Jakob Boehme Sat in our kitchen all morning. He sipped tea and warned of the quiet To which the wise must school themselves. The young woman paid no attention. Hair fallen over her eyes, Breasts loose and damp in her robe, Stubbornly scrubbing a difficult stain. Then the dog's bark brought us all outdoors, And that wasn't just geese honking, But Dame Julian of Norwich herself discoursing On the marvelous courtesy and homeliness of the Maker. FOR THE SAKE OF AMELIA Tending a cliff-hanging Grand Hotel In a country ravaged by civil war. My heart as its only bellhop. My brain as its Chinese cook. It's a run-down seaside place With a row of gutted limousines out front, Monkeys and fighting cocks in the great ballroom, Potted palm trees grown wild to the ceilings. Amelia surrounded by her beaus and fortune-tellers, Painting her eyelashes and lips blue In the hour of dusk with the open sea beyond, The long empty beaches, the tide's shimmer ... She pleading with me to check the ledgers, Find out if Lenin stayed here once, Buster Keaton, Nathaniel Hawthorne, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, who wrote on love? A hotel in which one tangos to a silence Which has the look of cypresses in silent films ... In which children confide to imaginary friends ... In which pages of an important letter are flying ... But now a buzz from the suite with mirrors. Amelia in the nude, black cotton over her eyes. It seems there's a fly On the tip of her lover's Roman nose. Night of distant guns, distant and comfortable. I am coming with a flyswatter on a silver tray. Ah the Turkish delights! And the Mask of Tragedy over her pubic hair. OCTOBER ARRIVING I only have a measly ant To think with today. Others have pictures of saints, Others have clouds in the sky. The winter might be at the door, For he's all alone And in a hurry to hide. Nevertheless, unable to decide He retraces his steps Several times and finds himself On a huge blank wall That has no window. Dark masses of trees Cast their mazes before him, Only to erase them next With a sly, sea-surging sound. 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 As this fine old twilight deserves, And the small schoolboy Who has come home to a room almost dark And now watches wide-eyed The grown-ups raise their glasses to him, The giddy-headed, red-haired woman With eyes tightly shut, As if she were about to cry or sing. PROMISES OF LENIENCY AND FORGIVENESS Orphanage in the rain, Empty opera house with its light dimmed, Thieves' market closed for the day, O evening sky with your cloudy tableaus! Incurable romantic marrying eternal grumblers. Life haunted by its more beautiful sister life- Always, always ... We had nothing But words. Someone rising to eloquence After a funeral, or in the naked arms of a woman Who has her head averted because she's crying, And doesn't know why. A hairline fracture of the soul Because of the way light falls on these bare trees and bushes. Sea-blackened rocks inscrutable as chess players ... One spoke to them of words failing ... Of great works and little faith, of blues in each bite of bread. Above the clouds the firm No went on pacing. The woman had a tiny smile and an open umbrella, Since now it had started to rain in a whisper, The kind of rain that must've whispered in some other life Of which we know nothing anymore except That someone kept watching it come down softly, Already soot-colored to make them think of Serious children at play, and of balls of lint in a dark corner Like wigs, fright wigs for the infinite. Excerpted from The Voice at 3:00 A.M. by Charles Simic Copyright © 2003 by Charles Simic Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
