Charles Simic

The devil likes the chicken coop. He lies on a bed of straw Watching the snow fall. The hens fetch him eggs to suck, But he’s not in the mood.

Cotton Mather is coming tonight, Bringing a young witch. Her robe already licked by flames, Her bare feet turning pink While she steps to the woodpile,

Saying a prayer; her hands Like mating butterflies – Or are they snowflakes? As the...

He was a poet of a lost world. A hundred years ago, there were still Greek communities along the coast of the Mediterranean, in Asia Minor and in South-East Europe that have since dispersed or died out. I know a little about them since part of my family, on my mother’s side, are descendants of Greek merchants who were permitted to settle in Belgrade by the Ottomans in late 18th century; they prospered, became wealthy and over time intermarried with Serbs and lost their ethnic distinctness. My mother heard Greek spoken in homes of certain family members when she was a young girl. I did not, but I remember how foreign these ancient cousins and aunts appeared to me, how cluttered their small, dark apartments were with furniture, their walls covered with Turkish carpets, icons or paintings of bearded priests and plump-looking men with heavy black moustaches who kept a stern eye on me as I poked around. There were also old books and magazines in many languages. These were educated people who in their youth attended schools abroad but whose families had long since gone broke and were at the point of extinction. Those stuffy apartments came to mind as I read about Cavafy’s home in the old Greek quarter in Alexandria, crowded with his mother’s furniture.

Neighbours leaned out of windows To see a pretty girl pass by While bombs fell out of the sky And flames lit up the mirrors.

Our building was a rollercoaster We took a ride in every night Wearing only our pyjamas And clutching a suitcase or a small dog.

It was like a street fair in hell. Death had a shelf full of stuffed animals At the shooting gallery Where we were a row of...

Where you are destined to turn up Some dark winter day Walking up and down dead escalators Searching for someone to ask In this dusty old store Soon to close its doors for ever.

At long last, finding the place, the desk Stacked high with sales slips, Concealing the face of the one You came to complain to About the coat on your back, Its frayed collar, the holes in its...

Once again, I find myself on the North Pole. I have no sled, no dogs and I’m dressed for bed. You ask me if I’m cold? Of course I’m cold, you idiots.

Sleepwalkers unite. Congregate on the rooftops at midnight.

Headlines in supermarket tabloids: A FLY TERRORISES KANSAS CANNIBAL WAITER EATS SIX DINERS IN LA BABY SMUGGLED INSIDE A WATERMELON

The number of watches and clocks to...