Excerpt from A Wake for the Living

DEATH SENTENCES

I was born too late and I am much too old,
My dear Hamlet,
To be your pimply Ophelia,

To let my hair like flattened wheat
Spread over the dark waters
And upset the floating water lilies
With my floating eyes,

To glide fishlike between fishes,
Sink to the bottom like a dead seashell,
Burrow in sand next to shipwrecks of love,
I, the amphora, entangled in seaweeds.

I’d rather you take off my dress,
Let it fall at my feet like aspen leaves
The wind shakes without permission
As if there’s nothing to it.

I’d rather have that death sentence:
Eternity of your arms around my neck.

THE OTHER ONE

While reading the death notices,
Among the deliberately and accidentally killed,
Among the suicides and the disappeared,
I search for your name.

While they speak on television
Of serious traffic accidents,
Fires, floods and similar catastrophes,
I imagine you among the victims.

Whenever the phone rings at an odd hour,
Whenever I see a mailman with a telegram,
Whenever I hear “sad news,”
I think they’ll say your name.

In the obituaries I imagine your face.
On gravestones so many resemble you.
On every deathbed you lie.
In the mirror I see your face.

After so much death, so much dying—
Impossible that you can be still alive.
Even if death is not a lottery,
How is it that you are not the winner?

My small black dress waits to be worn.
At one time it went to parties,
Now it watches for that other occasion.

If need be, I’ll wear a black veil,
Stand close to the mourners,
Dearest in life, dearest in death.

May I be the one to hear the news,
Hear it on time,
So I don’t go traveling,
So I’m not right here.

When the last lump of earth falls—
To take life into my hand
And push it aside like a child.

I, the tourist in service of eternity,
Living under another’s name.
I can feel the dirt on my eyelids.

GOODNESS

Goodness is boring.
Mrs. Goodness herself with her charities!
It’s boring to be good.
To forgive, be polite,
To smile
And keep smiling.
Dreadfully boring.
Sticking a saucer of milk
Under every snout,
Offering your cheek
To every hand to slap.
I’ve tried all that,
But I couldn’t make it go.

Only: take! take! take!
Never: give!
That kind of woman belongs in heaven
In company of saints.
I’m not the type.
Besides, it must be really boring there!
Not in your life will I go.
I still want to make whoopee down here!

It seems it’s hell I’m getting myself ready for.
Too often I bare my teeth.
I’m sensitive, my love, like a pregnant bitch—
Capable of tearing anyone apart
Who comes close to me
Even eating my own pups
For the salvation of body and soul.
That’s why I never brought one forth.
I keep them in my womb, guard them
With my heart between my teeth.
I growl at everyone.

THE POEMS I WRITE

I ought to have a new lover,
Get rid of the one I have
As if he were a can with a past-due date.

I ought to drive fast cars,
My hair flying out of the window
As if I were some Rosamund
Riding on a horse.
These are poems I write.

I ought to sleep till noon,
Spread myself over a great big bed
Like wheat over “sweet mother” earth.

I ought not to care about time,
Not to move slowly, not to hurry,
To drink each day down to its dregs,
Night after night—like a chain-smoker—
And step on a butt with my heel.
Words are embers. I burn myself into poetry.
These are the poems I write.

I ought to wear tight dresses,
Drape my shoulders with furs,
Wear high heels on my heels,
Paint myself and cover myself with jewels
Like a Christmas tree—
So my own mother doesn’t recognize me.

I ought to be cheerful, smiling, flirty,
To sing and dance till 3 A.M.
Mindful of my sex appeal
When some stud approaches me.
These are the poems I write.

Thorns, bumblebees and bees with their stingers
Ought not to touch me.
With my handkerchief I’ll wipe every worry and wrinkle
As if they were drops of sweat on my forehead.

I ought to have enough dough
For rent, taxes and a few more things.
Money comes in handy when there’s nothing else.
When kisses are misplaced, when words all trickle out.
With money one can breathe on credit.

I ought to tan my body on some rock
Far from the piers of Disaster.
I ought to emigrate from the land of Apathy
To the land of Wishes
So I can desire all and renounce nothing.
I ought to bathe myself in scented bubbles,
Draw a razor to my vein.
These are the poems I write.

English language translation copyright 2003 by Charles Simic. All rights reserved.