Loneliness, loss, sadness, and mystery mark this wonderful volume of forty-nine poems by Charles Simic, winner of the 1990 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry and praised as “one of the truly imaginative writers of our time” by the Los Angeles Times.

Haltia

The Book of Gods and Devils

I wrote to Charles Simic this past winter. Like a total stalker, I followed a trail of breadcrumbs that lead me to his university email address. Having had a few drinks by this time, I shrugged off anxiety and wrote to him. I told of a time when a volume of his poetry played a critical role in a very sentimental moment of my life, one that had a short-lived but important resonance. Much to my surprise and joy, he responded only a day later. His email was short and minimalist, but shared a personal story that read as if perpendicular to my own, which was quite touching that he had taken the time to respond and also to swap stories with me as f I were a familiar. Like an awestruck child, I had concluded my own email with a query into his favorite poems to read aloud, to which Mr. Simic responded in favor of his poem  Shelley ¹. The poem is indeed wonderful, especially when read aloud.  The Book of Gods and Devils  is the rightfully published home for said poem, and is a charming little volume as a whole. Several greats— In the Library  also worth special mention—are contained within and showcases a mid-career Simic with a proud and confident voice picking away at the marble towards the fine details of his poetic self-sculpture. Here is the poem Simic selected:  Shelley   Poet of the dead leaves driven like ghosts, Driven like pestilence-stricken multitudes, I read you first One rainy evening in New York City,  In my atrocious Slavic accent, Saying the mellifluous verses From a battered, much-stained volume I had bought earlier that day In a second-hand bookstore on Fourth Avenue Run by an initiate of the occult masters.  The little money I had being almost spent, I walked the streets my nose in the book. I sat in a dingy coffee shop With last summer’s dead flies on the table. The owner was an ex-sailor Who had grown a huge hump on his back While watching the rain, the empty street. He was glad to have me sit and read. He’d refill my cup with a liquid dark as river Styx.  Shelley spoke of a mad, blind, dying king; Of rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know; Of graves from which a glorious Phantom may Burst to illumine our tempestuous day.  I too felt like a glorious phantom Going to have my dinner In a Chinese restaurant I knew so well. It had a three-fingered waiter Who’d bring my soup and rice each night Without ever saying a word.  I never saw anyone else there. The kitchen was separated by a curtain Of glass beads which clicked faintly Whenever the front door opened. The front door opened that evening To admit a pale little girl with glasses.  The poet spoke of the everlasting universe Of things – of gleams of a remoter world Which visit the soul in sleep – Of a desert peopled by storms alone –  The streets were strewn with broken umbrellas Which looked like funereal kites This little Chinese girl might have made. The bars on MacDougal Street were emptying. There had been a fist fight. A man leaned against a lamp post arms extended as if crucified, The rain washing the blood off his face.  In a dimly lit side street, Where the sidewalk shone like a ballroom mirror At closing time – A well-dressed man without any shoes Asked me for money. His eyes shone, he looked triumphant Like a fencing master Who had just struck a mortal blow.  How strange it all was – The world’s raffle That dark October night – The yellowed volume of poetry With its Splendors and Glooms Which I studied by the light of storefronts: Drugstores and barbershops, Afraid of my small windowless room Cold as a tomb of an infant emperor.    4/5   ¹ A high-five to those of you whose minds skipped right to  Percy Bysshe Shelley , who is often praises and analyzed in the essays of Simic, Virginia Woolf, Yeats and Mary Ruefle (Ruefle talks extensively about Shelley in her collected lectures, a volume that is indispensable to any would-be writer).   Hear Simic read  Shelley  .

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