Poem for Sunday

Stumble on this very soothing poem by Charles Simic.Β  A perfect poem to enjoy on Sunday evening. I hope you enjoy it too.

The White Room

The obvious is difficult
To prove. Many prefer
The hidden. I did, too.
I listened to the trees.

They had a secret
Which they were about to
Make known to me–
And then didn’t.

Summer came. Each tree
On my street had its own
Scheherazade. My nights
Were a part of their wild

Storytelling. We were
Entering dark houses,
Always more dark houses,
Hushed and abandoned.

There was someone with eyes closed
On the upper floors.
The fear of it, and the wonder,
Kept me sleepless.

The truth is bald and cold,
Said the woman
Who always wore white.
She didn’t leave her room.

The sun pointed to one or two
Things that had survived
The long night intact.
The simplest things,

Difficult in their obviousness.
They made no noise.
It was the kind of day
People described as “perfect.”

Gods disguising themselves
As black hairpins, a hand-mirror,
A comb with a tooth missing?
No! That wasn’t it.

Just things as they are,
Unblinking, lying mute
In that bright light–
And the trees waiting for the night.

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13 thoughts on “Poem for Sunday”

  1. This is a brilliant poem you have picked, the simple words here has complex meaning. The poem represents life, darkness and wisdom which is very difficult to derive from such uncomplicated words. This is my kind of a poem, like it πŸ™‚

  2. Well, this was my afternoon read in a boring office. Great poem. I’m happy I opened this today.. πŸ˜€

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