Walking the Black Cat

From the first words, I felt on familiar ground—a place synthesized from my love of noir films, Paul Auster novels and driving at night with nowhere to be. Tight visual language and deceptively simple scenes create images that impact and linger. Curious to read more to see if this is the street Simic lives on or if he was just visiting. I love this as if I had lived my life to read it. (Maybe a bit overblown—but have I got your attention?)

This book is in turn dark and full of the joy of life. It is humorous and unexpected in both it's dark and light moments. It does what poetry is best at in evoking the emotion without one quite knowing how it was done, since the literal meaning does not account for the emotional impact. This is my second read of this collection and I was moved by it both times.

I bought this book years ago for a TIOLI challenge and never read it. (The challenge was to read a book written by an alumnus of your university) I choose this book for the October RandomCAT because of the word Black in the title and because the book jacket promises that Simic delivers startling new visions of the haunted landscape. This is the first time I've read the poetry of Charles Simic. Simic is the 1990 winner of the Pultizer Prize for Poetry.
These poems are strange, dreamlike things with a lot of classical references throughout. They're short, written in accessible language and a little bit creepy. I liked them- well, most of them.
Here are some examples specifically for October:

'''OCTOBER LIGHT'''

That same light by which I saw show more her last
Made me close my eyes now in revery,
Remembering how she sat in the garden

With a red shawl over her shoulders
And a small book in her lap,
Once in a long while looking up

With the day's brightness on her face,
As if to appraise something of utmost seriousness
She has just read at least twice,

With the sky clear and open to view,
Because the leaves had already fallen
And lay still around her two feet.

'''LONE TREE'''

A tree spooked
By it's own evening whispers,
Afraid to rustle,
Just now
Bewitched by the distant sunset

Making a noise full of deep
Misgivings,
Like bloody razor blades
Being shuffled,

And then again the quiet.
The birds too terror-stricken
To make their own comment.
Every leaf to every other leaf
An apparition,
A separate woe.

Bare twig:
A finger of suspicion. show less

It's been a while since I've read poetry just for myself. And it's challenging, and maddening, and lovely to explore language in its most distilled form.