Classic Ballroom Dances

Charles Simic

With Classic Ballroom Dances, Simic's eighth book of poetry, he hit his best stride. Better than Return to a Place Lit by a Glass of Milk, better than Charon's Cosmology, better even than his Pulitzer Prize-winning The World Doesn't End, Classic Ballroom Dances may, in fact, be the finest single book of poetry released in the twentieth century in the English language. It certainly stands on a short shelf with The World Doesn't End, Carruth's Collected Shorter Poems, Lowell's Lord Weary's Castle, the Collected Poems of Aime Cesaire, etc.

Surrealism is not an easy thing to come by in English. One may think it so, judging by all the surrealist wannabes that have been scampering around for the past half-century or so, but true surrealism requires both a deep understanding of the French poetry upon which it is based (this is where most surrealist wannabes fall short) and an aptitude for combining the form and function of surrealist poetry with English, integrating the linguistic wordplay of English with the French diction. (This is where a lesser number of surrealist wannabes fall short, but note the two often overlap in truly untalented individuals.) The handful of American surrealists who do it right—Eshleman, Stroffolino, Simic, a few others—have an understanding of this so ingrained it's almost second nature. That's why Eshleman can write The Gull Wall, or Simic can write Classic Ballroom Dances, and have them come out sounding just as fresh and witty as the best translations from the French (Benedikt's, Hamburger's, et al). Simic's “Ditty” may be the perfect English surrealist poem:

“...live as a bride of no one
the sister of algebra
could you love and remember
and remember only to forget
could you live as a dog without a master...”
(“Ditty”)

Simic's charms are, of course, not limited to being the illegitimate child of some secretive tryst between Guillaume Apollinaire and Paul Eluard, however. He is equally a child of the more traditional imagist school, and is capable of painting sparse pictures of undeniable beauty:

“...In a clearing,
They sized me up and then took their distance.
Quiet folk, bent, emaciated,

For such is the season. Without clues,
With hands raised, I stood like a mare
In a blacksmith's shop, Smoke
Of a late December sunlight...”
(“December Trees”)

It is quite impossible for me to actually say how good Classic Ballroom Dances is; it has redefined the measuring stick. With it, Simic stamped himself not only one of the finest poets working in the latter half of the twentieth century, but put himself to the head of the class. This will almost certainly top my Ten Best Reads of the Year list.