Charles Simic

Hm. I guess I've just never thought of Charles Simic as "a surrealist with a dark view." There's a kind of hollow loneliness expressed in a lot of his writing, I suppose, but his wintery dreamworld isn't a dark place. It's exuberant and ultimately, irredeemably, optimistic.

After we parted, the night, the cold, and the endless walking

Brought on a kind of ecstasy.
I went as if pursued, trying to warm myself.

There was the East River; there was the Hudson.
Their waters shone like oil in sanctuary lamps.

Something supreme was occurring
For which there will never be any words.

The sky was full of racing clouds and tall buildings,
Whirling and whirling silently.

In that whole city you could hear a pin drop.
Believe me.
I thought I heard a pin drop and I went looking for it.

From "The Initiate".