To Boredom

A lovely poem by Charles Simic, from the New Yorker:
To Boredom

I'm the child of your rainy Sundays.
I watched time crawl
Over the ceiling
Like a wounded fly.

A day would last forever,
Making pellets of bread,
Waiting for a branch
On a bare tree to move.

The silence would deepen,
The sky would darken,
As Grandmother knitted
With a ball of black yarn.

I know Heaven's like that.
In eternity's classrooms,
The angels sit like bored children
With their heads bowed.

7 comments:

Szerelem said...

What a lovely poem!

Have been reading for a long time...but this is a first comment :)

Nancy said...

Thanks for comment - and welcome!

Dave said...

Yeah, Simic is definitely getting his groove back.

Anna said...

Oh dear, I was hoping for something a bit more lively when I eventually pay the ferryman. Simic catches ennui perfectly.

Lucy said...

That Talking Heads line comes to mind - 'heaven is a place where nothing ever happens'. I sometimes think that's a bit how life is for me, I'm very happy, but not much happens!

rambhai said...

hey nice work~~~its original right??no offence~~~

Nancy said...

Rambai - it's original by Charles Simic, not me :) -- I said so at the top, so it's not plagiarism. Wish I could do as well.