the monster loves his labyrinth

Saul Steinberg, Charles Simic, 1993

"What do poets really want?" 
I was asked that once by a clever professor of philosophy. It was late at night and we were drinking a lot of wine, so I just said the first thing that came into my mind: "They want to know about things that cannot be put into words." 

--Charles Simic, The Monster Loves His Labyrinth

My dear friend Suki, knows I am smitten with Charles Simic, and was kind enough to surprise me with a copy of his The Monster Loves His Labyrinth:  Notebooks, a collection of his intelligent, sexy notebook entries, gathered over decades.  Since I, too, keep a notebook handy to jot special words and ideas, I find his little epigrams, observations and vignettes fascinating.

Browsing through Simic's random notes is like crawling inside his head and taking a peek at his gathered mental ephemera; charming tidbits like "snow arriving this morning at my door like a mail-order bride" or "a poem like a holy icon, painted in secret hope that some day a god may come to inhabit it miraculously".

I am a born collector, so keeping an assortment of chunky spiral notebooks (one at my desk, one one my bedside table for late night visits from my muse, and one in my handbag) of odd words and quirky phrases, comes second nature to me. In the process of writing poetry, I refer to them often, like a favorite cookbook.

In case you happen to be unfamiliar with my crush, Charles Simic born in Yugoslavia in 1938, Professor Emeritus of Creative Writing at the University of NH, won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1990 and was a finalist for the National Book Award for Poetry in 1996. In 2007 he was appointed Poet Laureate and received the $100,000 Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets.

he makes words dance

Words make love on the page

like flies in the summer heat

and the poet is only the bemused spectator.

Charles Simic

Newsflash! I just got word this morning that the handsome and talented Charles Simic will be attending the Willow Manor Ball! If you remember, he was invited, along with George Sanders, Trevor Howard and Robert Osborne. Since Mr. Sanders responded first, I chose him as my date for the evening. Now, I will be forced to split my attention between the two. Oh, what vile torture. I hope Mr. Simic is as light on his feet, as he is with his words.

In case you're unfamiliar with my particular crush, Charles Simic was born May 9, 1938, in Belgrade. He is a Serbian-American poet and co-Poetry Editor of the Paris Review. He was appointed the fifteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 2007.

After surviving the German bombing and occupation of Belgrade, he escaped Yugoslavia with his mother in 1948 into Austria and France, arriving in the United States in 1954 when he was sixteen. He grew up in Chicago and received his B.A. from New York University. He is professor emeritus of American literature and creative writing at the University of New Hampshire.

Simic brilliantly weaves his brutal childhood experience, twisted with wordplays and a comical sense of humor in his work. Not only is he a profound poet, but a thoughtful essayist on the topics of jazz, art and philosophy.



Classic Ballroom Dances


Grandmothers who wring the necks
Of chickens; old nuns
With names like Theresa, Marianne,
Who pull schoolboys by the ear;

The intricate steps of pickpockets
Working the crowd of the curious
At the scene of an accident; the slow shuffle
Of the evangelist with a sandwich board;

The hesitation of the early-morning customer
Peeking through the window grille
Of a pawnshop; the weave of a little kid
Who is walking to school with eyes closed;

And the ancient lovers, cheek to cheek,
On the dance floor of the Union Hall,
Where they also hold charity raffles
On rainy Monday nights of an eternal November.


Charles Simic

Looking forward to seeing everyone at the Third Annual Willow Manor Ball! The festivities will begin at 12:00 a.m. EST, this Thursday, September 30. Everyone who leaves a comment on Thursday, will be included in the drawing for two elegant door prizes. A Mr. Linky widget will be provided if you would like others to visit your blog, to see your special date and elegant attire. I can't wait to see what you creative bloggers do with this!

flying shirley

New Television Antenna, 1949, Norman Rockwell

I've been getting a ton of hits on my sitemeter lately on a particular post about my Shirley Temple. Are Shirleys back in vogue? Maybe. So, gentle readers, by popular demand, this is a re-post of Flying Shirley, originally posted in February of 2009.

When I was a little girl, I adored throwing my dolls in the air. The most fun, was tossing the baby Jesus from my grandmother's nativity set, complete with permanent plastic swaddling clothes, as near the ceiling as possible. To Grandma, this little fetish was entirely disrespectful. Like Queen Victoria, she was not amused, and promptly ordered me to stop, which I did, until she was safely out of the room.

I often dreamed of flying, myself, running fast as I possibly could in the grass, until my feet miraculously left the ground. It was exhilarating, drifting, wind in my face, arms out like Peter Pan, with an aerial view of my house and yard. I've heard it said to dream of flying is a sign of creativity, or maybe it was simply my childish craving for autonomy.

One Michigan summer day, a five year old me was doing my favorite Shirley Temple doll a favor, by sharing with her the thrill of flight. Higher and higher she flew, until she landed with a thud on the roof. I was mortified. Shirley, up there on the blazing asphalt, was more than I could bear. I begged my parents to rescue her, but to no avail. Fall came, and by November she was covered with a heavy blanket of snow. All winter, I imagined my Shirley, cold and abandoned on the roof.

With the arrival of spring, my father, anxious to see a ball game, climbed on the roof to adjust the TV antenna. He descended with a treasure, my beloved Shirley. Her ringlets were frizzled, one of her eyelids hung partially shut, and she had lost that curious, intoxicating scent of new plastic. I had never seen anything so lovely. I never again dreamed of flying.

Head of a Doll by Charles Simic

my flying Shirley

Whose demon are you,

Whose god? I asked

Of the painted mouth

Half buried in the sand.

A brooding gull

Made a brief assessment,

And tiptoed away

Nodding to himself.

At dusk a firefly or two

Dowsed its eye pits.

And later, toward midnight,

I even heard mice.

In the 1930s, the lovable little Shirley Temple became a symbol of happiness and hope in the midst of the Great Depression. A wave of merchandising followed, including a series of high quality Shirley Temple composition dolls (composition is a sawdust-based wood pulp, which can crack easily, so many did not survive). Later, in the 1950s, Shirley Temple dolls were made of vinyl and are therefore more common. Celebrity dolls have been in production for a long time. In the 1840s, several famous ballerinas were featured as paper dolls. Also in the 1800s, various military heroes were portrayed as dolls/figures. John Bunny, the silent film star, was one of the first dolls produced in 1914 by Louis Amberg & Sons, and the first Charlie Chaplin doll was produced in 1915. The Shirley Temple doll by Ideal was a wild phenomenon in the 1930s, and would go on to be one of the most successful celebrity dolls in history.

Note: My daughter looked so much like Shirley Temple when she was a little girl. In fact, she is still fondly known to one particular maestro as "Curly Top". I guess you could say I've been blessed with a real live Shirley doll of my very own.

very good condition

You may have noticed on my sidebar, I mention reading Charles Simic Selected Early Poems, which I recently ordered through Amazon. I decided to be frugal and order a used copy for $3.99. It was listed in "very good condition", but when it arrived, I found notes had been written throughout, words crossed out and circled. I don't mind an occasional charming note in the margin, but this one had been butchered. This makes me cringe, like fingernails on a chalkboard. I think from now on, I'll only buy used copies if I can see them first. Now don't get me wrong, there are times when I enjoy artistic graffiti, just not in my books. Anyway, I had fun writing the following poem.

Very Good Condition


The first had been chopped and diced,

drawn and quartered,

butchered by someone

who drew little circles to dot their i's.

Someone cut Charles Simic down to size.

They made no bones about

pushing a poet laureate

through the meat grinder,

taking a pound of flesh

from the block, fresh and pink.

At the table, they mocked his diction,

and dined on generous helpings

of circled lines, labeled fiction.

You know what I think?

Never trust purple ink.

willow, October 2009

Theme Thursday = Toy

For some reason, as a girl, I adored throwing my dolls up in the air.I mentioned before about the pleasure of throwing the baby Jesus from my grandmother's nativity set as high to the ceiling as I could. She was not at all amused with this little fetish and would promptly order me to stop, which I did; until she left the room, of course.

When I was little, I would often dream I could fly; just start running in the grass, faster and faster until I was airborne. It was absolute heaven, drifting, wind in my face, arms out like Peter Pan, looking down at the roof of my house and yard. I've heard it said to dream of flying was a sign of creativity or was it simply my childhood need to feel liberated?

One bright summer day in East Lansing, Michigan, when I was five, I was doing my favorite Shirley Temple doll a favor by giving her the thrill of flight. Higher and higher she flew until she landed with a thump on the roof of the house. I was horrified. The thought of her up there on the blazing asphalt, was more than I could bear. I pleaded with my parents to rescue her, but to no avail. Fall came and by November, she was buried with a heavy blanket of snow. All winter, I imagined her up there, abandoned, cold and bewildered.

Spring finally came. My father, anxious to see a ball game, climbed up on the roof to adjust the TV antenna. He descended with a treasure; my beloved Shirley. Her ringlets were smashed, one of her eyelids hung partially shut, and she had lost that curious, inviting scent of new plastic, but I had never seen anything so lovely. I never dreamed of flying again.

Head of a Doll

Whose demon are you,

Whose god? I asked

Of the painted mouth

Half buried in the sand.

A brooding gull

Made a brief assessment,

And tiptoed away

Nodding to himself.

At dusk a firefly or two

Dowsed its eye pits.

And later, toward midnight,

I even heard mice.

by Charles Simic

I am dedicating this post to my two bloggy friends who are crazy about doll heads. Go pay Sharon at Sweet Repose and Steviewren at A Little Birdie Told Me So a visit and read their posts. You'll see what I mean!

Charles Simic

My favorite poet this week is Charles Simic. Born May 9, 1938, in Belgrade, he is a Serbian-American poet and co-Poetry Editor of the Paris Review. He was appointed the fifteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 2007.

After surviving the German bombing and occupation of Belgrade, he escaped Yugoslavia with his mother in 1948 into Austria and France, arriving in the United States in 1954 when he was sixteen. He grew up in Chicago and received his B.A. from New York University. He is professor emeritus of American literature and creative writing at the University of New Hampshire.

I like the way he uses his experience of the brutal history of World War II, twisted with wordplays and a comical sense of humor in his work. Not only is he a profound poet, but a thoughtful essayist on the topics of jazz, art and philosophy.



Classic Ballroom Dances


Grandmothers who ring the necks
Of chickens; old nuns
With names like Theresa, Marianne,
Who pull schoolboys by the ear;

The intricate steps of pickpockets
Working the crowd of the curious
At the scene of an accident; the slow shuffle
Of the evangelist with a sandwich board;

The hesitation of the early-morning customer
Peeking through the window grille
Of a pawnshop; the weave of a little kid
Who is walking to school with eyes closed;

And the ancient lovers, cheek to cheek,
On the dance floor of the Union Hall,
Where they also hold charity raffles
On rainy Monday nights of an eternal November.

"Words make love on the page

like flies in the summer heat

and the poet is only the bemused spectator."

~

Charles Simic

info: Wikipedia, The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry