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Hotel Insomnia: Poems
In this volume, Simic fills the wee hours of his poetry with angels and pigs, riddles and cemeteries. His is a rich, haunted world of East European memory and american present-a world of his own creation, one always full of luminous surprise. “Simic writes so simply that his words fall like drops of water, but they ripple outward to evoke an ominous and numinous world� (Washington Post Book World).
79 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1992
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1,148 people want to read
About the author
Charles Simic
235books465followersU.S. Poet Laureate, 2007-2008
Dušan Charles Simic was born in Belgrade, former Yugoslavia, on May 9, 1938. Simic’s childhood was complicated by the events of World War II. He moved to Paris with his mother when he was 15; a year later, they joined his father in New York and then moved to Oak Park, a suburb of Chicago, where he graduated from the same high school as Ernest Hemingway. Simic attended the University of Chicago, working nights in an office at the Chicago Sun Times, but was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1961 and served until 1963.
Simic is the author of more than 30 poetry collections, including The World Doesn’t End: Prose Poems (1989), which received the Pulitzer Prize; Jackstraws (1999); Selected Poems: 1963-2003 (2004), which received the International Griffin Poetry Prize; and Scribbled in the Dark (2017). He is also an essayist, translator, editor, and professor emeritus of creative writing and literature at the University of New Hampshire, where he taught for over 30 years.
Simic has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the MacArthur Foundation, the Academy of American Poets, and the National Endowment for the Arts. His other honors and awards include the Frost Medal, the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, and the PEN Translation Prize. He served as the 15th Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, and was elected as Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets in 2001. Simic has also been elected into the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
Dušan Charles Simic was born in Belgrade, former Yugoslavia, on May 9, 1938. Simic’s childhood was complicated by the events of World War II. He moved to Paris with his mother when he was 15; a year later, they joined his father in New York and then moved to Oak Park, a suburb of Chicago, where he graduated from the same high school as Ernest Hemingway. Simic attended the University of Chicago, working nights in an office at the Chicago Sun Times, but was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1961 and served until 1963.
Simic is the author of more than 30 poetry collections, including The World Doesn’t End: Prose Poems (1989), which received the Pulitzer Prize; Jackstraws (1999); Selected Poems: 1963-2003 (2004), which received the International Griffin Poetry Prize; and Scribbled in the Dark (2017). He is also an essayist, translator, editor, and professor emeritus of creative writing and literature at the University of New Hampshire, where he taught for over 30 years.
Simic has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the MacArthur Foundation, the Academy of American Poets, and the National Endowment for the Arts. His other honors and awards include the Frost Medal, the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, and the PEN Translation Prize. He served as the 15th Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress, and was elected as Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets in 2001. Simic has also been elected into the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
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January 10, 2018
Sep 14, 16
* Also on .
January 11, 2023
RIP Charles Simic, 1/9/23
Hotel Insomnia
I liked my little hole,
Its window facing a brick wall.
Next door there was a piano.
A few evenings a month
a crippled old man came to play
"My Blue Heaven."
Mostly, though, it was quiet.
Each room with its spider in heavy overcoat
Catching his fly with a web
Of cigarette smoke and revery.
So dark,
I could not see my face in the shaving mirror.
At 5 A.M. the sound of bare feet upstairs.
The "Gypsy" fortuneteller,
Whose storefront is on the corner,
Going to pee after a night of love.
Once, too, the sound of a child sobbing.
So near it was, I thought
For a moment, I was sobbing myself.
Cloud Gathering
It seemed the kind of life we wanted.
Wild strawberries and cream in the morning.
Sunlight in every room.
The two of us walking by the sea naked.
Some evenings, however, we found ourselves
Unsure of what comes next.
Like tragic actors in a theater on fire,
With birds circling over our heads,
The dark pines strangely still,
Each rock we stepped on bloodied by the sunset.
We were back on our terrace sipping wine.
Why always this hint of an unhappy ending?
Clouds of almost human appearance
Gathering on the horizon, but the rest lovely
With the air so mild and the sea untroubled.
The night suddenly upon us, a starless night.
You lighting a candle, carrying it naked
Into our bedroom and blowing it out quickly.
The dark pines and grasses strangely still.
.
An interview with Simic about what HE thinks he is about:
In it Simic talks about folk surrealism, the foundation in Hungarian folk narratives he grew up with, his love of the surreal, generally. Jazz and blues riffing, spontaneous moments, Neruda.
This collection of poems is all for me about magic, about the wonders of invention in the face of some of the horrors in the world. There’s a kind of Eastern European sensibility in the poems and silly spoofing and absurdity. It all makes sense to me, finally, once you see the world enough through his eyes. Infinite surprises.
Hotel Insomnia
I liked my little hole,
Its window facing a brick wall.
Next door there was a piano.
A few evenings a month
a crippled old man came to play
"My Blue Heaven."
Mostly, though, it was quiet.
Each room with its spider in heavy overcoat
Catching his fly with a web
Of cigarette smoke and revery.
So dark,
I could not see my face in the shaving mirror.
At 5 A.M. the sound of bare feet upstairs.
The "Gypsy" fortuneteller,
Whose storefront is on the corner,
Going to pee after a night of love.
Once, too, the sound of a child sobbing.
So near it was, I thought
For a moment, I was sobbing myself.
Cloud Gathering
It seemed the kind of life we wanted.
Wild strawberries and cream in the morning.
Sunlight in every room.
The two of us walking by the sea naked.
Some evenings, however, we found ourselves
Unsure of what comes next.
Like tragic actors in a theater on fire,
With birds circling over our heads,
The dark pines strangely still,
Each rock we stepped on bloodied by the sunset.
We were back on our terrace sipping wine.
Why always this hint of an unhappy ending?
Clouds of almost human appearance
Gathering on the horizon, but the rest lovely
With the air so mild and the sea untroubled.
The night suddenly upon us, a starless night.
You lighting a candle, carrying it naked
Into our bedroom and blowing it out quickly.
The dark pines and grasses strangely still.
.
An interview with Simic about what HE thinks he is about:
In it Simic talks about folk surrealism, the foundation in Hungarian folk narratives he grew up with, his love of the surreal, generally. Jazz and blues riffing, spontaneous moments, Neruda.
This collection of poems is all for me about magic, about the wonders of invention in the face of some of the horrors in the world. There’s a kind of Eastern European sensibility in the poems and silly spoofing and absurdity. It all makes sense to me, finally, once you see the world enough through his eyes. Infinite surprises.
January 29, 2021
We were fabulously lucky.
We became dandelions.
Before we were even born
We kept wishing to be dandelions.
Next we found ourselves traveling
Out of the great unknown.
We rode down in a train
Sixteen coaches long,
We sat prim and proper
In our golden yellow dresses.
Others came as black widows,
Little monkeys, and red birds,
And of course many ants,
Snuggled together and looking glum.
� � �
I was a winter fly on the ceiling
In the house of arachnids.
Silence reigned. Queen Insomnia
Sipped tea in the parlour,
Death and Judgment by her side.
The ceiling a polar expedition.
The window a theater of cruelty
With its view of the pretty meadow:
Sheep nibbling wildflowers,
And the sky beyond them vast and empty.
Death notices posted in every room.
The old woman dressing a small child for slaughter
In a convent's school uniform.
The ceiling pale as the flowers.
The red parrot screaming in the parrot house.
August 10, 2015
And that's why he is one of the best poets writing today:
WAR
The trembling finger of a woman
Goes down the list of casualties
On the evening of the first snow.
The house is cold and the list is long.
All our names are included.
WAR
The trembling finger of a woman
Goes down the list of casualties
On the evening of the first snow.
The house is cold and the list is long.
All our names are included.
April 30, 2018
يا سعادة
أنت البطانة الحمراء اللامعة
للمعطف الشتوي الغامق
الذي ترتديه الخيبة بالمقلوب
!!
~~~~
خلاصة القول .. لو لم أكن أعلم أن هذا الديوان لتشارلز سيميك، لقلت انه لهانك تشارلز بوكوفسكي دون تردد .. الروح نفسها ، التمرد نفسه، العبثية نفسها ، السخرية اللاذعة، القلب المرهق من كثرة الضحك والبكاء .. اللاشئ الذي يسكن كل شئ ، التعب والسجائر والنساء
وكأنه بوكوفسكي جديد بنكهة اقل في الجرأة وأكثر في الرمزية
...
November 5, 2019
لست من محبي الشعر
ولكن لا بأس بقراءته بين وقت وآخر
لا بد من الإشادة بالترجمة الممتازة
ولكن لا بأس بقراءته بين وقت وآخر
لا بد من الإشادة بالترجمة الممتازة
February 5, 2018
*ايام سوداء*
يا رفاق
اسناني تؤلمني
و ليس لدي نقود فأخلعها
لو تعرفون طريقةـ دلوني عليها
يطرق صاحب البيت نافذتي
تنام زوجتي بدون غطاء
لذلك وقف يحملق
حتى نسى سبب مجيئه
هناك ثقوب في نعلي حذائي
و الطريق الى صندوق البريد مكسو بالجليد
لو تعرفون طريقاً أخر، دلوني عليه.
و ماذا أيضاً؟ ولدت في زمن الحرب
و أيامها لم يكن هناك أيضاً نقود
كنت ألحس الملعقة كل مساء
ثم ألحس الوعاء في حرص
بينما أمي جالسة تنظر لي
إلى أن تصيبها رجفة
و تخفي وجهها.
يا رفاق
اسناني تؤلمني
و ليس لدي نقود فأخلعها
لو تعرفون طريقةـ دلوني عليها
يطرق صاحب البيت نافذتي
تنام زوجتي بدون غطاء
لذلك وقف يحملق
حتى نسى سبب مجيئه
هناك ثقوب في نعلي حذائي
و الطريق الى صندوق البريد مكسو بالجليد
لو تعرفون طريقاً أخر، دلوني عليه.
و ماذا أيضاً؟ ولدت في زمن الحرب
و أيامها لم يكن هناك أيضاً نقود
كنت ألحس الملعقة كل مساء
ثم ألحس الوعاء في حرص
بينما أمي جالسة تنظر لي
إلى أن تصيبها رجفة
و تخفي وجهها.
December 15, 2024
I like my poetry like I like my men, intelligent and suicidal.
February 7, 2018
Un cantare zingaro , imprevedibile e giocoso
uno stile disadorno innerva frasi secche come frustate
Il tono con cui Simic vede e racconta il mondo? questo
Non esagero quando dico che non posso nemmeno pisciare ,senza un libro in mano.
Leggo per addormentarmi e per svegliarmi.
Ho sempre letto al lavoro , in tutti i lavori che ho fatto, nascondendo il libro tra le carte sulla scrivania o nel cassetto mezzo aperto. Anche nella mia bara aperta ,un giorno , reggerò un libro.
"Il libro tibetano dei morti" sarebbe molto appropriato, ma preferirei un manuale sul sesso o le poesie di Emily Dickinson .
Nelle sue poesie c'è la visionarietà dell'uomo insonne , versi tra il sonno e la veglia
Molti Zero
Senza voce l'insegnante si alza davanti a una classe
di pallidi bambini dalle labbra serrate.
La lavagna alle sue spalle tanto nera quanto il cielo
che dista anni luce dalla terra.
È il silenzio che l'insegnante ama,
il gusto dell’infinito che trattiene.
Le stelle come le impronte di denti sulle matite
dei bambini.
Ascoltatelo, dice felice.
-------------------
Poesia d'amore
Tu sei un cuore che pulsa
nella selva oscura.
Sei l'urlo sulla ruota panoramica.
Proprio così bruja
che batti il piede
con le mani ai fianchi.
Notte sulla fiera.
Orchestra di legni.
Due borsaioli ciechi nella folla.
uno stile disadorno innerva frasi secche come frustate
Il tono con cui Simic vede e racconta il mondo? questo
Non esagero quando dico che non posso nemmeno pisciare ,senza un libro in mano.
Leggo per addormentarmi e per svegliarmi.
Ho sempre letto al lavoro , in tutti i lavori che ho fatto, nascondendo il libro tra le carte sulla scrivania o nel cassetto mezzo aperto. Anche nella mia bara aperta ,un giorno , reggerò un libro.
"Il libro tibetano dei morti" sarebbe molto appropriato, ma preferirei un manuale sul sesso o le poesie di Emily Dickinson .
Nelle sue poesie c'è la visionarietà dell'uomo insonne , versi tra il sonno e la veglia
Molti Zero
Senza voce l'insegnante si alza davanti a una classe
di pallidi bambini dalle labbra serrate.
La lavagna alle sue spalle tanto nera quanto il cielo
che dista anni luce dalla terra.
È il silenzio che l'insegnante ama,
il gusto dell’infinito che trattiene.
Le stelle come le impronte di denti sulle matite
dei bambini.
Ascoltatelo, dice felice.
-------------------
Poesia d'amore
Tu sei un cuore che pulsa
nella selva oscura.
Sei l'urlo sulla ruota panoramica.
Proprio così bruja
che batti il piede
con le mani ai fianchi.
Notte sulla fiera.
Orchestra di legni.
Due borsaioli ciechi nella folla.
September 10, 2016
انا فيلم قديم باهت مهزوز الصورة وصامت في الغالب
.
لماذا دائما هذه الاشاره
إلى نهايه حزينه
.
يا سعاده
انت البطانه الحمراء اللامعة
للمعطف
الشتوي الغامق
التي ترتديه الخيبة
بالمقلوب
.
انا عند منحنى
شارع
لا ينبغي
أن أكون عنده
وحيدا بلا معطف
.
النجمة الثالثه المقدمة التي اختارها المترجم على لسان الشاعر
.
لماذا دائما هذه الاشاره
إلى نهايه حزينه
.
يا سعاده
انت البطانه الحمراء اللامعة
للمعطف
الشتوي الغامق
التي ترتديه الخيبة
بالمقلوب
.
انا عند منحنى
شارع
لا ينبغي
أن أكون عنده
وحيدا بلا معطف
.
النجمة الثالثه المقدمة التي اختارها المترجم على لسان الشاعر
July 28, 2008
Frankly, Simic already had me hooked into this book by the time I'd finished reading the title. What I found inside did not disappoint. More than a lengthy and doubtless presumptuous analysis, a couple of quotes might suffice to explain why. The title poem, Hotel Insomnia, starts with:
I liked my little hole,
Its window facing a brick wall.
Next door there was a piano.
A few evenings a month
A crippled old man came to play
“My Blue Heaven.�
And from the ending of Romantic Sonnet:
Happiness, you are the bright red lining
Of the dark winter coat
Grief wears inside out.
This about myself when I’m remembering,
And your long insomniac’s nails,
O Time, I keep chewing and chewing.
Wish I could be as creative and productive with my bleary-eyed 2-4 AM wide-awake thrash-fests. This is one book I'll keep by my bedside to delve into again and again, not as an antidote for insomnia, but as something to make being awake at night a lot more worthwhile.
I liked my little hole,
Its window facing a brick wall.
Next door there was a piano.
A few evenings a month
A crippled old man came to play
“My Blue Heaven.�
And from the ending of Romantic Sonnet:
Happiness, you are the bright red lining
Of the dark winter coat
Grief wears inside out.
This about myself when I’m remembering,
And your long insomniac’s nails,
O Time, I keep chewing and chewing.
Wish I could be as creative and productive with my bleary-eyed 2-4 AM wide-awake thrash-fests. This is one book I'll keep by my bedside to delve into again and again, not as an antidote for insomnia, but as something to make being awake at night a lot more worthwhile.
Read
February 6, 2019مجتهد فقط فيما يخص الحب،
وفيما عداه، متلكئ و كسول و متجهم.
وفيما عداه، متلكئ و كسول و متجهم.
July 17, 2018
يقول المراجع جمال الجزيري عن وجهة نظر سيميك في الشعر، و النابعة عن خبرته كمترجم، و عنه كشاعر ،
" هناك أولًا الشعراء الذين يتكئون كثيرًا على الجانب الصوتي للغة، أي الإيقاع وموسيقى الكلمات و القاموس الشعري، وهي أشياء لا يمكن ترجمتها حيث ستكون هناك خيانة بالتأكيد؛ لأن السمع جزء لا يتجزأ من تجربتهم الشعرية. و النوع الثاني من الشعراء، هم أولئك الذين يتكئون على الصور الشعرية والكلمات الدالة والعلاقات بين التراكيب والصور، وهي أشياء يسهل نقلها من لغة إلى لغة؛ لأنها غير مرتبطة بالخصائص المميزة للغة ما دون غيرها."
ولعل حديثه كان محفزًا لأقرأ الديوان، ولكن للأسف لم يكن جيدًا كما توقعت :)
" هناك أولًا الشعراء الذين يتكئون كثيرًا على الجانب الصوتي للغة، أي الإيقاع وموسيقى الكلمات و القاموس الشعري، وهي أشياء لا يمكن ترجمتها حيث ستكون هناك خيانة بالتأكيد؛ لأن السمع جزء لا يتجزأ من تجربتهم الشعرية. و النوع الثاني من الشعراء، هم أولئك الذين يتكئون على الصور الشعرية والكلمات الدالة والعلاقات بين التراكيب والصور، وهي أشياء يسهل نقلها من لغة إلى لغة؛ لأنها غير مرتبطة بالخصائص المميزة للغة ما دون غيرها."
ولعل حديثه كان محفزًا لأقرأ الديوان، ولكن للأسف لم يكن جيدًا كما توقعت :)
March 10, 2024
A few months ago someone on Twitter/X posted a George Simic poem. I did ask which collection it was from but didn’t receive a reply. I was so fascinated by the poem that I bought Hotel Insomnia but somehow none of the poems spoke to me like that one did. Why? I have no idea.
Despite this, I’m glad I read Hotel Insomnia. There are some gentle poems that whisper of that other poem. The collection is divided up into three parts, simply entitled One, Two and Three.
From One, my favourites are The Congress of the Insomniacs, the powerful Stub of a Red Pencil, Clouds Gathering (my favourite of the whole collection) and Place at the Outskirts, below:
“Gods trying different costumes
In the kitchen of a darkened restaurant,
Then emerging one by one
To serve you.
For the moment, just a glass of red wine
At the table with a view of the empty street,
A row of abandoned buildings,
And the cloudless evening sky.
The philosopher in you says:
The world is a beautiful idea.
Aphrodite with arms missing dressed as a nun
Waiting to take your order.�
The poems in Two didn’t grab me as much. I’m unsure why, except for Missing Child. From Three, Figure in the Landscape, Spring, Some Nights and my second favourite The Old World. Here is the last stanza from At the Vacancy Sign:
“Late afternoon sunlight
With one golden dead fly
On the table .
And the year unknown.
And the hour fugitive.�
Perhaps if I hadn’t read that poem on Twitter and instead come across this book out of the blue I would be giving it five stars instead of four. Mood and preconceived ideas are so important when it comes to enjoying what we choose to read. I’m very thankful though for this wonderful line from The Old World:
“Eternity eavesdropping on time.�
Despite this, I’m glad I read Hotel Insomnia. There are some gentle poems that whisper of that other poem. The collection is divided up into three parts, simply entitled One, Two and Three.
From One, my favourites are The Congress of the Insomniacs, the powerful Stub of a Red Pencil, Clouds Gathering (my favourite of the whole collection) and Place at the Outskirts, below:
“Gods trying different costumes
In the kitchen of a darkened restaurant,
Then emerging one by one
To serve you.
For the moment, just a glass of red wine
At the table with a view of the empty street,
A row of abandoned buildings,
And the cloudless evening sky.
The philosopher in you says:
The world is a beautiful idea.
Aphrodite with arms missing dressed as a nun
Waiting to take your order.�
The poems in Two didn’t grab me as much. I’m unsure why, except for Missing Child. From Three, Figure in the Landscape, Spring, Some Nights and my second favourite The Old World. Here is the last stanza from At the Vacancy Sign:
“Late afternoon sunlight
With one golden dead fly
On the table .
And the year unknown.
And the hour fugitive.�
Perhaps if I hadn’t read that poem on Twitter and instead come across this book out of the blue I would be giving it five stars instead of four. Mood and preconceived ideas are so important when it comes to enjoying what we choose to read. I’m very thankful though for this wonderful line from The Old World:
“Eternity eavesdropping on time.�
September 14, 2012
Hotel Insomnia is a collection of poems by the Pulitzer Prize winning poet Charles Simic.
Since this was my first time reading the works of Simic, I did not know what to expect. However, I definitely had a good feeling about this book because of its mysterious and catchy title.
Upon setting my eyes on the first stanza of the first poem, I knew that this book would be a keeper. Simic's unique prose and use of dark yet alluring imagery easily drew me into the stanzas and lines, drinking in the words down to the last drop. He brilliantly crafted his thoughts, observations, and memories of the past and present into beautiful, yet haunting pieces of work.
An air of mystery and placidity inhibited each and every single poem, making me feel unbounded and uncharted all at once. Simic's words had an elusive way of dancing around and around in my head, they wove webs of nostalgia, emptiness, freedom, and isolation into lovely fragmented musings. I quickly realized that his writing style was a bit strange and unique in a likeable way.
Simic must have been a man of many musings, his thoughts filled with angels and riddles, cemeteries and dolls, silk dresses and darkening woods and sleepless nights. His work is definitely worth modeling after due to its individualistic flare and prose. I am definitely looking forward to indulging myself in his other works in the near future.
Here is a snippet from one of the poems I really enjoyed:
On a long shot, I went searching
For you Miranda, downtown
When the offices empty at five,
Knowing neither the building nor the street.
I had my lust to lead me
With its sleepwalker's stride.
The city, that winter evening,
Like an opera house on fire.
Hundreds of fleeing faces to examine,
Hundreds of false sightings to pursue,
Only to overtake a complete stranger,
Someone spooked by what my eyes told her,
Someone equally ethereal,
Already lost in the crowd,
Already replaced by someone new.
Until she, too, vanished.
-- The Infinite
I would highly recommend this book to anyone who is willing to try a new style of poetry. I am sure you will not regret it.
5 out of 5 stars!
Since this was my first time reading the works of Simic, I did not know what to expect. However, I definitely had a good feeling about this book because of its mysterious and catchy title.
Upon setting my eyes on the first stanza of the first poem, I knew that this book would be a keeper. Simic's unique prose and use of dark yet alluring imagery easily drew me into the stanzas and lines, drinking in the words down to the last drop. He brilliantly crafted his thoughts, observations, and memories of the past and present into beautiful, yet haunting pieces of work.
An air of mystery and placidity inhibited each and every single poem, making me feel unbounded and uncharted all at once. Simic's words had an elusive way of dancing around and around in my head, they wove webs of nostalgia, emptiness, freedom, and isolation into lovely fragmented musings. I quickly realized that his writing style was a bit strange and unique in a likeable way.
Simic must have been a man of many musings, his thoughts filled with angels and riddles, cemeteries and dolls, silk dresses and darkening woods and sleepless nights. His work is definitely worth modeling after due to its individualistic flare and prose. I am definitely looking forward to indulging myself in his other works in the near future.
Here is a snippet from one of the poems I really enjoyed:
On a long shot, I went searching
For you Miranda, downtown
When the offices empty at five,
Knowing neither the building nor the street.
I had my lust to lead me
With its sleepwalker's stride.
The city, that winter evening,
Like an opera house on fire.
Hundreds of fleeing faces to examine,
Hundreds of false sightings to pursue,
Only to overtake a complete stranger,
Someone spooked by what my eyes told her,
Someone equally ethereal,
Already lost in the crowd,
Already replaced by someone new.
Until she, too, vanished.
-- The Infinite
I would highly recommend this book to anyone who is willing to try a new style of poetry. I am sure you will not regret it.
5 out of 5 stars!
July 27, 2011
My theory that magical things happen when one meanders through the NF section at the library remains intact! For that is what I was doing when I found Hotel Insomnia.
Whilst browsing the poetry section, I was attracted to its title first, then I picked it up, flipped through it, decided it had great potential to be something I'd like, and took it home.
As I said, I liked the title first of all; it conjured certain pictures and expectations in my mind that I'd say Charles Siric captured quite well. He pulled me into a deceptively sparse-looking world with bleak rooms whose windows look out onto a bleaker city. He gave beauty to the wee hours of the morning, lying in bed with eyes that won't stay closed; listening and remembering.
I think I have a new favourite poet!
Whilst browsing the poetry section, I was attracted to its title first, then I picked it up, flipped through it, decided it had great potential to be something I'd like, and took it home.
As I said, I liked the title first of all; it conjured certain pictures and expectations in my mind that I'd say Charles Siric captured quite well. He pulled me into a deceptively sparse-looking world with bleak rooms whose windows look out onto a bleaker city. He gave beauty to the wee hours of the morning, lying in bed with eyes that won't stay closed; listening and remembering.
I think I have a new favourite poet!
June 29, 2012
الربيع
ĶĶĶĶĶ
هذا ما رأيت: ثلج قديم على الأرض،
ثلاثة شحارير تسوّى ريشها بمناقيرها،
وجارتى تخرج فى قميص نومها
لتعلق قمصان زوجها على الحبل.
كان من الصعب أن تثبّت القمصانَ
مع هبوب رياح الصباحِ
التى رفعت ثوبها عالياً فوق ركبتيها،
فكان عليها أن تكف عما تفعل،
وتضحك ضحكةً جميلة
وهى تغطّى نفسها.
ĶĶĶĶĶ
هذا ما رأيت: ثلج قديم على الأرض،
ثلاثة شحارير تسوّى ريشها بمناقيرها،
وجارتى تخرج فى قميص نومها
لتعلق قمصان زوجها على الحبل.
كان من الصعب أن تثبّت القمصانَ
مع هبوب رياح الصباحِ
التى رفعت ثوبها عالياً فوق ركبتيها،
فكان عليها أن تكف عما تفعل،
وتضحك ضحكةً جميلة
وهى تغطّى نفسها.
February 20, 2018
Fare poesia con scarpe e forchette
Poeta strano, Simic, disadorno e prosaico come lo sguardo su stampelle, scarpe, insetti può essere. Non tutte le poesie funzionano perfettamente, ma ci sono alcune risonanze originali e scorrette al punto giusto:
I like it when Achilles gets killed .
E l'attenzione verso le cose, il mondo materiale apre spazi poco esplorati dalla poesia: This chair was once a student of Euclid. .
Simic mi convince meno quando il fraseggio diviene frammentario, con versi composti da due sole parole, con una sintassi inesistente che restituisce visioni immobili e alla lunga un poco asfittiche e sterili - è a tutti gli effetti una poesia di sostantivi, radicata nelle cose che sfilano sotto i nostri occhi, come scrive Andrea Molesini nell'ottima postfazione.
Poeta strano, Simic, disadorno e prosaico come lo sguardo su stampelle, scarpe, insetti può essere. Non tutte le poesie funzionano perfettamente, ma ci sono alcune risonanze originali e scorrette al punto giusto:
I like it when Achilles gets killed .
E l'attenzione verso le cose, il mondo materiale apre spazi poco esplorati dalla poesia: This chair was once a student of Euclid. .
Simic mi convince meno quando il fraseggio diviene frammentario, con versi composti da due sole parole, con una sintassi inesistente che restituisce visioni immobili e alla lunga un poco asfittiche e sterili - è a tutti gli effetti una poesia di sostantivi, radicata nelle cose che sfilano sotto i nostri occhi, come scrive Andrea Molesini nell'ottima postfazione.
March 17, 2024
أكثر ما أحببته الفصل الأخير، مختارات من ديوان "العالم لا ينتهي"
July 27, 2017
يعرب سيميك عن تمسكه بالواقعية في شعره، وإن كانت واقعية من نوع خاص تقترب من السيريالية المتعارف عليها، حيث ينفي السيريالية عن شعره ويقول إن شعره واقعي حتى النخاع، فالسيريالية لا تعني شيئا في بلد مثل أمريكا حيث تمتلئ مدنها بالمشردين والمجانين الذين يتحدثون إلى أنفسهم في الشوارع والطرقات، ولا يلحظهم الناس، ولذا يلاحظهم سيميك ويشاهد تصرفاتهم ويسترق السمع إليهم، ويكتب عنهم، الأمر الذي يجعل البعض يظن أن شعره به مسحة سريالية، في حين أنها واقعية؛ واقعية من نوع خاص تناسب الحياة الأمريكية والمهمشين في الشوارع الأمريكية..
من مقدمة الكتاب.
من مقدمة الكتاب.
October 12, 2023
يمكن ان اعد ذلك الكتاب من الكتب التي ستعيش ذكراها معي لوقت ،ليس لجمال خاص فيها و لكن لغرابة الظروف التي وضعته معي و امامي . اشتريته مع كتاب اخر لانطونيو تابوكي في اخر يوم من معرض كتاب مكتبة الاسكندرية ،و انا احاول ان انشغل في الكتب لابين سعة ثقافتي لفتاة وددت ان اغازلها علي طريقتي ، و قد وضعت الصدفة هذا الكنز امامي و اشتريته بحوالي ١٥ جنيها . اشتريته لسببين اولا لمعرفتي بقيمة تشارلز سيميك خاصة ان ايمان مرسال تحبه و تترجم له ،و ثانيا لمعرفتي بقيمة المترجم أحمد شافعي رغم حداثة العمل ٢٠٠٥ . كنا تقريبا بعد وفاته بعدة ايام و هو حاضر علي بالي . سافر الكتاب معي كثيرا و بعيدا ، من الاسكندرية حيث اقيم إلي العامرية حيث كنت أنتوي العزلة و العمل إلي شرم الشيخ و شمسها الحارقة ثم إلي بلدتي الصغيرة علي ضفاف النيل بكفر الشيخ . و ليس انتهاء بعلي ابن خالي لما زارني في غرفتي و ببراءة ال٧سنوات يسألني عن اذا كان الكتاب قصص رعب ؛نظرا لغلافة الغرائبي .
........................................................
اهم شيء في الكتاب هو ترجمته و مترجمه الشجاع .و ايضا التصدير كان رائعا و عرف ببعض افكار سيميك ،الذي يحتفل بانه قادر علي سب كل شيء تقريبا . يقول سيميك ان جزء من قوته انه يقرأ للرومان القدماء و الصينيين القدماء . لا يكل من الاستهزاء من النقاد و هرائهم .
علي مستوي التجربة فهو شاعر كبير و قراءتي له امتعتني جدا . شاعري لابعد حد و غارق في رسم صوره الجمالية المتعددة نظرا لنشأته في صربيا و من ثم سفره إلي امريكا ،ثقافتين متباعدتين جدا . خياله شاسع و قادر علي التقاط مكونات القصيدة من عوالم مختلفة و باحجام مختلفة .
........................................................
اهم شيء في الكتاب هو ترجمته و مترجمه الشجاع .و ايضا التصدير كان رائعا و عرف ببعض افكار سيميك ،الذي يحتفل بانه قادر علي سب كل شيء تقريبا . يقول سيميك ان جزء من قوته انه يقرأ للرومان القدماء و الصينيين القدماء . لا يكل من الاستهزاء من النقاد و هرائهم .
علي مستوي التجربة فهو شاعر كبير و قراءتي له امتعتني جدا . شاعري لابعد حد و غارق في رسم صوره الجمالية المتعددة نظرا لنشأته في صربيا و من ثم سفره إلي امريكا ،ثقافتين متباعدتين جدا . خياله شاسع و قادر علي التقاط مكونات القصيدة من عوالم مختلفة و باحجام مختلفة .
December 9, 2018
تشارلز سميك العظيم، أول قراءة، ولن أنتهي.ـ
يكتب سيميك قصيدة النثر ممسكا بالأرق ليصنع منه عوالم لا متناهية باحتمالات لا تتوقف على معنى أو اتجاه واحد. يكتب في أحد القصائد: "حينما مسستني على كتفي/ أيها الضوء الذي توصف روعته/ أسديت لي خير كثيرا/ جعلت -فقط- أرقي يطول". ـ
وفي ذات المجموعة يثير سيميك سؤال الأشياء ليستنطقها فيكتب في أحد قصائده: " أثرت من جديد سؤال الشيء: أيبقى لا مباليا سواء وعى به الناس أم لا"ـ
والترجمة للشاعر أحمد شافعي، كانت بالفعل رائعة
وهذه مجموعة من الاقتباسات:
ورق الشجرة العالي مثل شفتي أمي"-
دائم الارتعاش، عاجز عن اتخاذ القرار.
فثمة شيء من الريح،
ويبدو كأنني أسمع أصواتاً
أو أن هناك فماً ملآن بضحك مكتوم
فماً صخما معتما يمكنه ظان يحتوينا جميعا
"وبغتة تغطيه يد
ياسعادة "-
أنتِ البطانة الحمراء اللامعة
للمعطف الشتوي الغامق
"الذي ترتديه الخيبة بالمقلوب
يكتب سيميك قصيدة النثر ممسكا بالأرق ليصنع منه عوالم لا متناهية باحتمالات لا تتوقف على معنى أو اتجاه واحد. يكتب في أحد القصائد: "حينما مسستني على كتفي/ أيها الضوء الذي توصف روعته/ أسديت لي خير كثيرا/ جعلت -فقط- أرقي يطول". ـ
وفي ذات المجموعة يثير سيميك سؤال الأشياء ليستنطقها فيكتب في أحد قصائده: " أثرت من جديد سؤال الشيء: أيبقى لا مباليا سواء وعى به الناس أم لا"ـ
والترجمة للشاعر أحمد شافعي، كانت بالفعل رائعة
وهذه مجموعة من الاقتباسات:
ورق الشجرة العالي مثل شفتي أمي"-
دائم الارتعاش، عاجز عن اتخاذ القرار.
فثمة شيء من الريح،
ويبدو كأنني أسمع أصواتاً
أو أن هناك فماً ملآن بضحك مكتوم
فماً صخما معتما يمكنه ظان يحتوينا جميعا
"وبغتة تغطيه يد
ياسعادة "-
أنتِ البطانة الحمراء اللامعة
للمعطف الشتوي الغامق
"الذي ترتديه الخيبة بالمقلوب
May 13, 2017
Un intero firmamento 💜
September 11, 2019
الحقيقة أنه كان مخيب جدًا لتوقعاتي. خاصة أنني توقعت شيء مختلف من شاعر كبير بحجم تشارلز سميك ومترجم متميز مثل أحمد شافعي.
January 24, 2025
GUERRA
Il dito tremante di una donna
scorre la lista dei caduti
nella sera della prima neve.
La casa è fredda e la lista lunga.
I nostri nomi, tutti, sono inclusi.
3 ⭐️
Il dito tremante di una donna
scorre la lista dei caduti
nella sera della prima neve.
La casa è fredda e la lista lunga.
I nostri nomi, tutti, sono inclusi.
3 ⭐️
October 15, 2018
Having read about half a dozen or so of the author's books before getting to this one, it was little surprise that this book would deal so heavily in one of the topics that is characteristic of his literature and mine [1], namely, insomnia and what keeps one from sleeping well. One hesitates to speculate exactly on what is keeping the author from sleeping well here or in many of his other volumes of similarly dark and melancholy poetry, but it is no surprise given the material of this poem that the author appears to have an overactive imagination. If one looks at the material of this poem and thinks of the sort of mind that is required to create that sort of material, it follows that such a mind is not particularly conducive to sleep. Whether or not that is the kindest way to interpret such issues or not is somewhat irrelevant when one considers the fact that the lack or disturbance of sleep is so large a matter in the author's work that one has to figure that it influences his work in a major way. This is not to say that it is a bad thing, because if one does not sleep, at least one can write, but it is certainly distinctive of the author's work.
Like the author's work in general, this book is less than 100 pages and is divided into three parts. Some of the poems I was familiar with from one of the best-of compilations of his writings when he was named as poet laureate of the United States, but his poems in general struck me as pretty solid and easy to appreciate, as they generally do. Of course, the author struggles with dreams, with memory, with the visions of dark city streets and dark doings, of the infinite and its implications. One is tempted to say in reading this or any other of the author's work that a great deal of the author's struggle with sleep and his evident spiritual warfare is an inability to trust God. How much that springs from the author's childhood in WWII Yugoslavia is hard to say, but that probably plays at least some role in the author's intense and continuing suffering on the spiritual and mental and emotional levels of existence. Indeed, in one of the poems of this collection the author reflects on himself and his family being among the casualties of war printed in advance, which suggests that for him World War II was not the glorious experience it is to many Americans.
Even so, for the most part this book is a collection of poems that follows the author's usual preoccupations even as it provides insight into the author and his imagination. Even the title of this work suggests that he is aware that his own struggle for peace and quiet and gentle sleep is not his alone, but rather that he is the inhabitant of one room of a larger hotel of people who sleep poorly, for some of the reasons included in this work and likely a good deal more. Part of the popularity of the author's work, at least as far as the unpopular genre of contemporary poetry goes, is likely due to the fact that the author deals with subjects of general relevance. The struggle with the infinite, the curse of nightmares and intrusive traumatic memories and the experience of horror that one cannot unsee are all matters of general interest to people, especially the sort of sensitive people who are drawn naturally to poetry, both to read it and write it. At this stage of his poetry career, Simic seems aware that he is writing not only for himself but also for and to a larger audience who shares his concerns and does not mind a deep examination into it through beautiful if gloomy poetry.
[1] See, for example:
Like the author's work in general, this book is less than 100 pages and is divided into three parts. Some of the poems I was familiar with from one of the best-of compilations of his writings when he was named as poet laureate of the United States, but his poems in general struck me as pretty solid and easy to appreciate, as they generally do. Of course, the author struggles with dreams, with memory, with the visions of dark city streets and dark doings, of the infinite and its implications. One is tempted to say in reading this or any other of the author's work that a great deal of the author's struggle with sleep and his evident spiritual warfare is an inability to trust God. How much that springs from the author's childhood in WWII Yugoslavia is hard to say, but that probably plays at least some role in the author's intense and continuing suffering on the spiritual and mental and emotional levels of existence. Indeed, in one of the poems of this collection the author reflects on himself and his family being among the casualties of war printed in advance, which suggests that for him World War II was not the glorious experience it is to many Americans.
Even so, for the most part this book is a collection of poems that follows the author's usual preoccupations even as it provides insight into the author and his imagination. Even the title of this work suggests that he is aware that his own struggle for peace and quiet and gentle sleep is not his alone, but rather that he is the inhabitant of one room of a larger hotel of people who sleep poorly, for some of the reasons included in this work and likely a good deal more. Part of the popularity of the author's work, at least as far as the unpopular genre of contemporary poetry goes, is likely due to the fact that the author deals with subjects of general relevance. The struggle with the infinite, the curse of nightmares and intrusive traumatic memories and the experience of horror that one cannot unsee are all matters of general interest to people, especially the sort of sensitive people who are drawn naturally to poetry, both to read it and write it. At this stage of his poetry career, Simic seems aware that he is writing not only for himself but also for and to a larger audience who shares his concerns and does not mind a deep examination into it through beautiful if gloomy poetry.
[1] See, for example:
September 19, 2012
So I read this book in one day. And my thoughts are... Well, I do not have that much to say about this book. It was just completely weird, and I love weird. Weird is great, and it is the new normal. This book consists of dark poems, and they were pretty disturbing. There were a lot of symbolism that associated with the color black. At first I did not really get the point, but as I kept reading, I kind of understand the poems a little better as I read along. I do recommend this book to anybody who likes poems. I like poetry a little bit, but what drawn me to this book is the darkness of the cover. I love dark books since I am just that kind of person I guess. Also, the the title Hotel Insomnia has a little dark taste to it too. I guess that is all, and just pick up this book and start reading it. It is pretty quick.
October 28, 2015
Favorites:
Obscure Beginnings
"The window a theater of cruelty,
With its view of the pretty meadow:
Sheep nibbling wildflowers..."
Miss Nostradamus
"Overcoats thrown over their pajamas, the lovers of tragedies now stand in ecstasy, there where a naked babe is being thrown out of a high window by a woman in flames."
Folk Songs
"Sausage-makers of History,
The bloody kind,
You all hail from a village
Where the dog barking at the moon
Is the only poet."
To Think Clearly
"Don't go admiring yourself
In the butcher's knife
As if it were a whore's mirror..."
Romantic Sonnet
"Happiness, you are the bright red lining
Of the dark winter coat
Grief wears inside out."
Some Nights
Beauty
Street Scene
"This strange century,
With its slaughter of the innocent,
Its flight to the moon..."
Obscure Beginnings
"The window a theater of cruelty,
With its view of the pretty meadow:
Sheep nibbling wildflowers..."
Miss Nostradamus
"Overcoats thrown over their pajamas, the lovers of tragedies now stand in ecstasy, there where a naked babe is being thrown out of a high window by a woman in flames."
Folk Songs
"Sausage-makers of History,
The bloody kind,
You all hail from a village
Where the dog barking at the moon
Is the only poet."
To Think Clearly
"Don't go admiring yourself
In the butcher's knife
As if it were a whore's mirror..."
Romantic Sonnet
"Happiness, you are the bright red lining
Of the dark winter coat
Grief wears inside out."
Some Nights
Beauty
Street Scene
"This strange century,
With its slaughter of the innocent,
Its flight to the moon..."
April 13, 2021
Sleeplessness is like a metaphysics.
Be there.
“The Congress of the Insomniacs�
A gripping title for a collection best read in the dead of night or in the early hours of the morning, when darkness and silence, occasionally crossed by muffled sounds, give way to magic.
Simic’s Nocturnes merge the ordinary with surreal and lofty visions of angels, labyrinthine corridors, prisons within prisons, funeral homes. He breathes life into inanimate objects and recollects fleeting scenes from the Old world or from the streets of the New world with a sphinx-like tone that makes those poems sound like serene riddles.
In that room with its red sunset �
It was eternity’s time to speak,
So we listened
As if our hearts were made of stone.
“Tragic architecture�
Be there.
“The Congress of the Insomniacs�
A gripping title for a collection best read in the dead of night or in the early hours of the morning, when darkness and silence, occasionally crossed by muffled sounds, give way to magic.
Simic’s Nocturnes merge the ordinary with surreal and lofty visions of angels, labyrinthine corridors, prisons within prisons, funeral homes. He breathes life into inanimate objects and recollects fleeting scenes from the Old world or from the streets of the New world with a sphinx-like tone that makes those poems sound like serene riddles.
In that room with its red sunset �
It was eternity’s time to speak,
So we listened
As if our hearts were made of stone.
“Tragic architecture�
January 11, 2015
More of the "To Read" List clean up:
I spent a month of more with this Simic collection in 2009, and it's impressions are still strong, despite the loss of details. This was my first Simic, and it sent me quickly to others. This collection especially dwells in the penumbra of half-light just outside the street light's glow, full of almost-truths and near-certainties.
I spent a month of more with this Simic collection in 2009, and it's impressions are still strong, despite the loss of details. This was my first Simic, and it sent me quickly to others. This collection especially dwells in the penumbra of half-light just outside the street light's glow, full of almost-truths and near-certainties.
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