Despite the strongly worded copyright notice at the front of his book (Walking the Black Cat), I am going to reproduce here one of the poems from said book, and I'll tell you why: 1) It is only one of 67 poems in the book--of which I've only digested 1/3 and almost every poem in the number's been excellent and the rest have been very good. So, less than 1/67th is what I'm reproducing here (some of the poems are longer than this, few are shorter) and 2) because the book's still in print (unlike most poetry books) you can still buy a copy from Amazon for 9.75. The book would be a steal at twice the price. 3) Because I've sung its praises and taken the time to transcribe a poem so you can sample it's wares, maybe some of you will buy it. Certainly no fewer of you will buy it because of this posting. And 4) I've provided a link to the Amazon page no fewer than 4 times already and I'll put another one down at the bottom. Buying great books has never been easier. 5) I've no qualms about reproducing the work of poets who are dead and/or from books are that are out of print, so why screw over (essentially) the poets that actually still might be able to make some scratch out of word of mouth, and there's no way to know if you'll like something (and therefore volunteer to spend money on it) than to read part of it.

So, all that said, here is the poem.

Winter Evening

These hunches I get, cold shivers
At the way the light
Makes bloodstains on the house wall,
I'm scared to trust a sparrow,
I won't come near the cat.

Destiny marks you early in the day
With a knowing finger,
Then busies itself setting up the props,
Painting the scenery.

My love's window was on fire
With the sunset.
Her hair was red.
The pillow she carried in her arms
Was like a baby.

Quiet as a breadcrumb,
I stood and watched.
All around me birds had fallen silent.
And then the clouds moved
Their tragic robes,
And so did the night.

--Charles Simic, from his book Walking the Black Cat. (Buy it.)

Oh Danny Boy

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

---
It's one of those things that I just didn't see coming, but when I heard this song recently for the first time in quite a while, it totally wrecked me. Now I can't even read the lyrics without tearing up. Damn you, PBS!

Fire Season

All the angels of Tie Siding were on fire.
                                                                  The famous sky was gone.

Presumably the mountains were still there, invisible in haze.
                                                                                                 OK,
there was only one angel, but she was a torch in the wind, beside
the wind-ripped American flag the post office flies.
                                                                                   OK, she wasn't
literally on fire.
                            Maybe her angelic red hair made me think she was
ablaze as it flaunted the prarie and made a festival of itself.
                                                                                                  There
was a fireworks stand nearby, entirely beside the point, as was the
Fourth of July.
                          It was really dry.
                                                        It was fire season.
                                                                                       It was the
wind festival, featuring an angel standing in it, letting her red hair
conflagrate history, reduce it to ask, bid it start anew, erase the sky
with atrocity's own smoke.
                                            She wore, besides her flame of hair,
blue jeans and a singlet.
                                         She was violent in the wind.
                                                                                       I started
walking toward her.
                                  I'm still walking toward her, no idea what to
say when I get there.

--James Galvin, from his most recent book, "X"