The ProdigalDark morning rain Meant to fall On a prison and a schoolyard, Falling meanwhile On my mother and her old dog. How slow she shuffles now In my father’s Sunday shoes. The dog by her side Trembling with each step As he tries to keep up. I am on another corner waiting With my head shaved. My mind hops like a sparrow In the rain. I’m always watching and worrying about her. Everything is a magic ritual, A secret cinema, The way she appears in a window hours later To set the empty bowl And spoon on the table, And then exits So that the day may pass, And the night may fall Into the empty bowl, Empty room, empty house, While the rain keeps Knocking at the front door. . Charles Simic
I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
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Pablo Neruda
It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.
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Virginia Woolf
Sweetest smile is made saddest tear-drop!
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Edwin Arnold
The true poem rests between the words.
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Vanna Bonta
Sometimes he did not know if he slept or just thought about sleep.
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Mark Strand
More Quotes By Charles Simic
A true confession: I believe in a soluble fish.
One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.
Poetry: three mismatched shoes at the entrance of a dark alley.
In their effort to divorce language and experience, deconstructionist critics remind me of middle-class parents who do not allow their children to play in the street.
