How a Poet Spends Christmas
Posted by admin on December 29th, 2009
Passing Charles Simic’s house
on December 24th,
I have a vision of how the
poet spends Christmas:
His head a hornet’s nest of mad thoughts;
his form
Iridescent: radiating
deep, eerie blues
around firelight.
The touch of wine glasses is
a siren’s wail
luring him into
obscene introspection
about family and tradition.
He catches his reflection
in a blue/green ball,
distorted,
surrounded by aqueous faces,
Strangers, truly!
He excuses himself to the balcony
to be alone,
considering all a man really needs
is space.
One world is ablaze behind him, another unfolding before,
Formless, cold and opaque.
Standing there,
he composes this poem.