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Michael Simms: The Happiness of Animals
When the soul-sickness takes me
And my mind is in an ugly place
And I resent other writers their success, I retire to my attic room
To look out the octagonal window at the gray street dead leaves carried by the wind I hear a storm coming
And I am no longer the ruler of my invisible kingdom
And incomparable ecstasy is no longer at my beckoning
And the honey of praise for my children is no longer on my lips
And I am not the man I planned to be nor is this the life I wanted
And my feet have forgotten the music and my hands have forgotten the smooth arcs
And the gift I once had is a black wand that goads me into self-loathing
And the small cruelties I’ve practiced seem large and the large irreparable
And even the innocence of William Blake cannot console me
My son says he’s cracked the code
Dad, when you put your head under the pillow you’re dreaming deeply and don’t bother you
And when you lie in bed staring at the ceiling you’re working on a poem and don’t bother you
And when you lie on your back with your arms across your face then we especially better not bother you
Then I hear bees and ghosts of bees swarming.
And I worry that I’ve become like Maureen the Madwoman of Mount Washington
Pursued by penguins and weasels through the streets
Screaming her shrill mantra Spider web spider web
Let down your hair repeated all day all night
Until Ed Shaw the beat cop tells her to move on move on
I pull the shades
I lie down in the dark and listen to the rain
I hear my daughter sitting on the carpet with crayons saying
The heart is two circles and a dot
The heart is two circles and a dot
And I remember Robert Herrick speaking of his lady’s spicy nest
The scent of my wife moving from room to room
I begin to believe the curve is the holiest of inventions
And my daughter asks Dad, how come all your friends are in AA or else some kind of animal?
And I listen to the Goldberg Variations until I swear I will never write another poem about an angel dragging a broken wing
From now on I will praise only the beauty of logarithms, how they are like elegant jewels on a golden chain
And I sing off-key until I realize I’ve almost figured out the equation of joy
And I write down everything the madwoman says, turning each line this way and that
And I call to my dog Winchester – we walk the forgotten streets in the last of the warm rain
We wade in the waist-high weeds of an abandoned lot where Winchester, a black lion in a peaceable kingdom grazes on the daffodil and the dandelion and the asphodel
And I consider the dirt under my shoe, how old it is
Older than arithmetic, older than spoons and mirrors and scissors
Perhaps as old as the happiness of animals
The happiness of a cow lying in a meadow chewing her memory
Of sunlight and grass
Chewing everything twice
Coughing it up, spitting it out
Like a poet
Copyright 2006. From The Happiness of Animals by Michael Simms, published by Monkey Sea Editions.
Vox Populi 
Reblogged this on Jessamayann and commented:
This stuff is good. Check out Michael Simms poetry.
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Michael, you are a wonderful writer. So glad I found your poems.
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Thank you!
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Exquisite.
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Thanks, Gerald!
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You give us a deep place in the world Michael. Grateful for the poem. “old as the happiness of animals” and cows chewing twice –not for nothing. Thank you.
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Thanks, Rosaly!
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Thank you for posting this poem. You make me grateful to be a poet.
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Thanks, Nola!
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Self-importance is the danger facing every poem about the poet. This one falls prey
to that kind of posturing. And resenting the success of bad poets like Rupi Kaur is healthy, not a sin against one’s soul.
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Wonderful to see this poem from your 2006 collection.
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Thanks, Andrea!
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I love this poem! And–synchronicity–I sent you a message about posting poems by Blake before I read this today. –Arlene
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Thanks, Arlene!
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Bravo, Michael.
Michael Gregory http://www.michaelgregory.org http://www.postsovietdepression.com
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Thanks, Michael!
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