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Poet's Choice

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But that night I lay slumped on the floor,

Chewing on a pencil,

Sighing from time to time,

Growling, too, at something out there

I could not bring myself to name.

Congratulations to the Library on its opportunity to consult with a poet-dog who (in the third line above) nearly gets kicked out of a library. I admire the poem for its wit, candor and invention -- and also for what it doesn't do. The poem declines to accept a pre-chewed notion of what "confession" might mean. In other words, this poem, astringent rather than bland, declines to flatter a taste for the obvious.

An earlier Simic poem is also candid and, in a quite different way, tells its truth by avoiding -- even mocking -- formulaic habits of mind:

FURTHER ADVENTURES OF CHARLES SIMIC

Is our Charles Simic afraid of death?

Yes, Charles Simic is afraid of death.

Does he kneel and pray for eternal life?

No, he's busy drawing a valentine with a crayon.

Pale as a freshly chopped onion,

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