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All of Us the Collected Poems
Raymond Carver, who became a master-storyteller of his generation and was hailed in Europe as 'the American Chekhov', wrote of himself: "I began as a poet. My first publication was a poem. So I suppose on my tombstone I'd be very pleased if they put 'Poet and short-story writer - and occasional essayist', in that order."
This complete edition allows readers to experience the range and overwhelming power of Carver's poetry for the first time. It brings together in the order of their American publication the poems of Fires (1985), Where Water Comes Together with Other Water (1986), Ultramarine (1988), A New Path to the Waterfall (1989) and No Heroics, Please (1991).
For readers who know Carver's middle period only through his selected poems, In a Marine Light (1988), it includes the windfall of 51 poems not previously published in Britain. All of Us is edited by Professor William L. Stull of the University of Hartford, and introduced with an essay on Raymond Carver's methods of composition by his widow, the poet Tess Gallagher.
This complete edition allows readers to experience the range and overwhelming power of Carver's poetry for the first time. It brings together in the order of their American publication the poems of Fires (1985), Where Water Comes Together with Other Water (1986), Ultramarine (1988), A New Path to the Waterfall (1989) and No Heroics, Please (1991).
For readers who know Carver's middle period only through his selected poems, In a Marine Light (1988), it includes the windfall of 51 poems not previously published in Britain. All of Us is edited by Professor William L. Stull of the University of Hartford, and introduced with an essay on Raymond Carver's methods of composition by his widow, the poet Tess Gallagher.
Paperback
First published December 31, 1996
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About the author
Raymond Carver
360 books5,089 followersCarver was born into a poverty-stricken family at the tail-end of the Depression. He married at 19, started a series of menial jobs and his own career of 'full-time drinking as a serious pursuit', a career that would eventually kill him. Constantly struggling to support his wife and family, Carver enrolled in a writing programme under author John Gardner in 1958. He saw this opportunity as a turning point.
Rejecting the more experimental fiction of the 60s and 70s, he pioneered a precisionist realism reinventing the American short story during the eighties, heading the line of so-called 'dirty realists' or 'K-mart realists'. Set in trailer parks and shopping malls, they are stories of banal lives that turn on a seemingly insignificant detail. Carver writes with meticulous economy, suddenly bringing a life into focus in a similar way to the paintings of Edward Hopper. As well as being a master of the short story, he was an accomplished poet publishing several highly acclaimed volumes.
After the 'line of demarcation' in Carver's life - 2 June 1977, the day he stopped drinking - his stories become increasingly more redemptive and expansive. Alcohol had eventually shattered his health, his work and his family - his first marriage effectively ending in 1978. He finally married his long-term parter Tess Gallagher (they met ten years earlier at a writers' conference in Dallas) in Reno, Nevada, less than two months before he eventually lost his fight with cancer.
Rejecting the more experimental fiction of the 60s and 70s, he pioneered a precisionist realism reinventing the American short story during the eighties, heading the line of so-called 'dirty realists' or 'K-mart realists'. Set in trailer parks and shopping malls, they are stories of banal lives that turn on a seemingly insignificant detail. Carver writes with meticulous economy, suddenly bringing a life into focus in a similar way to the paintings of Edward Hopper. As well as being a master of the short story, he was an accomplished poet publishing several highly acclaimed volumes.
After the 'line of demarcation' in Carver's life - 2 June 1977, the day he stopped drinking - his stories become increasingly more redemptive and expansive. Alcohol had eventually shattered his health, his work and his family - his first marriage effectively ending in 1978. He finally married his long-term parter Tess Gallagher (they met ten years earlier at a writers' conference in Dallas) in Reno, Nevada, less than two months before he eventually lost his fight with cancer.
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September 11, 2016
Sometimes reading an entire collection of poems cover to cover is exhausting and maybe even inadvisable work. In fact, I often read poetry collections on the side as I'm reading fiction (or non-) because it requires such focus.
You know the feeling. Especially with poems that yawn and stretch out over a page or two. You're reading and suddenly you realize your mind has drifted, like a newbie meditation acolyte trying on Buddhism for size. You go back. Remind yourself. Focus on the words! Start over! Deep breath and go....
With Raymond Carver, this is less of an issue. One reason is his style. It is quite idiomatic, often written in chummy vernacular. Deceivingly simple, too. A Hemingway of poetry, then. And before long, due to the repeating themes coming at you in waves (like, say, Bach's music), you feel like ole Ray is your bud. Your best pal. Sympatico. Amigo.
And, say. I can write like this, too! Look how simple! Just as Hem breeds legions of aspiring short story writers who crash into the craggy shores of imitation, so does Carver with poetry imitators. The Scylla and Charybdis of deceptively simple. Scrivener sailors beware.
If, like me, you're not at home with narrative poetry and caught up with the Johnny One-Note of lyrical poetry, Carver's the antidote. He's known for his short stories more than his poetry, but so many of these thrive on the same strengths--the ability to choose a few key details from his own life or another's, to quickly build a story, to deftly find emotion or one small note of truth in it.
Many of the poems focus on simple things that make life worth living. And on death. Which is ironic and not. On the one hand, death is a theme in most all writer's writing from the dawn of days. Where do we go? And why me? Special old me? The other irony is Ray's own early demise to cancer. Struck down at age 50. The last poems are written through that glass darkly.
This particular collection contains every poem Raymond Carver ever wrote. In the back there are appendices, the first one containing his early, unpublished poems. I read these first, then went back and read in order of his four published collections so I could see his growth as a poet. He's an end-stop guy. When he's in an enjambment, he knows how to get out of it, so to speak. Lots of dependent clauses with periods. If you're enamored of complete sentences in your poetry and if grammar violations bother you, enter at your own school marm-ish risk.
Here are some sample works I like:
"Bobber"
On the Columbia River near Vantage,
Washington, we fished for whitefish
in the winter months; my dad, Swede-
Mr. Lindgren-and me. They used belly-reels,
pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown
flies baited with maggots.
They wanted distance and went clear out there
to the edge of the riffle.
I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole.
My dad kept his maggots alive and warm
under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink.
I liked him better than my dad for a time.
He lets me steer his car, teased me
about my name "Junior," and said
one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember
all this, and fish with my own son.
But my dad was right. I mean
he kept silent and looked into the river,
worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.
"This Morning"
This morning was something. A little snow
lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear
blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green,
as far as the eye could see.
Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went
for a walk -- determined not to return
until I took in what Nature had to offer.
I passed close to some old, bent-over trees.
Crossed a field strewn with rocks
where snow had drifted. Kept going
until I reached the bluff.
Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and
the gulls wheeling over the white beach
far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure
cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts
began to wander. I had to will
myself to see what I was seeing
and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what
mattered, not the other. (And I did see it,
for a minute or two!) For a minute or two
it crowded out the usual musings on
what was right, and what was wrong -- duty,
tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat
with my former wife. All the things
I hoped would go away this morning.
The stuff I live with every day. What
I've trampled on in order to stay alive.
But for a minute or two I did forget
myself and everything else. I know I did.
For when I turned back i didn't know
where I was. Until some birds rose up
from the gnarled trees. And flew
in the direction I needed to be going.
"My Dad's Wallet"
Long before he thought of his own death,
my dad said he wanted to lie close
to his parents. He missed them so
after they went away.
He said this enough that my mother remembered,
and I remembered. But when the breath
left his lungs and all signs of life
had faded, he found himself in a town
512 miles away from where he wanted most to be.
My dad, though. He was restless
even in death. Even in death
he had this one last trip to take.
All his life he liked to wander,
and now he had one more place to get to.
The undertaker said he’d arrange it,
not to worry. Some poor light
from the window fell on the dusty floor
where we waited that afternoon
until the man came out of the back room
and peeled off his rubber gloves.
He carried the smell of formaldehyde with him.
He was a big man, the undertaker said.
Then began to tell us why
he liked living in this small town.
This man who’d just opened up my dad’s veins.
How much is it going to cost? I said.
He took out his pad and pen and began
to write. First, the preparation charges.
Then he figured the transportation
of the remains at 22 cents a mile.
But this was a round-trip for the undertaker,
don’t forget. Plus, say, six meals
and two nights in a motel. He figured
some more. Add a surcharge of
$210 for his time and trouble,
and there you have it.
He thought we might argue.
There was a spot of color on
each of his cheeks as he looked up
from his figures. The same poor light
fell in the same poor place on
the dusty floor. My mother nodded
as if she understood. But she
hadn’t understood a word of it.
None of it made any sense to her,
beginning with the time she left home
with my dad. She only knew
that whatever was happening
was going to take money.
She reached into her purse and bought up
my dad’s wallet. The three of us
in that little room that afternoon.
Our breath coming and going.
We stared at the wallet for a minute.
Nobody said anything.
All the life had gone out of the wallet.
It was old and rent and soiled.
But it was my dad’s wallet. And she opened
it and looked inside. Drew out
a handful of money that would go
toward this last, most astounding, trip.
The best compliment I can pay a book is to say I won't pass it on to a like-minded friend. When I get a little selfish about a book, when I make permanent space like a star on Hollywood on the bookshelf so I can return to it for inspiration, ideas, and unpacking, it's a five plus. I realize he's not everybody's cuppa. He's not into rhyme, meter, or form poems of any sort. But that's a snapshot of me, too. Those don't much appeal to me.
As Mark Twain said of classics, so I say of poetry: I prefer water to fine wine. And if that says something about me, so be it!
You know the feeling. Especially with poems that yawn and stretch out over a page or two. You're reading and suddenly you realize your mind has drifted, like a newbie meditation acolyte trying on Buddhism for size. You go back. Remind yourself. Focus on the words! Start over! Deep breath and go....
With Raymond Carver, this is less of an issue. One reason is his style. It is quite idiomatic, often written in chummy vernacular. Deceivingly simple, too. A Hemingway of poetry, then. And before long, due to the repeating themes coming at you in waves (like, say, Bach's music), you feel like ole Ray is your bud. Your best pal. Sympatico. Amigo.
And, say. I can write like this, too! Look how simple! Just as Hem breeds legions of aspiring short story writers who crash into the craggy shores of imitation, so does Carver with poetry imitators. The Scylla and Charybdis of deceptively simple. Scrivener sailors beware.
If, like me, you're not at home with narrative poetry and caught up with the Johnny One-Note of lyrical poetry, Carver's the antidote. He's known for his short stories more than his poetry, but so many of these thrive on the same strengths--the ability to choose a few key details from his own life or another's, to quickly build a story, to deftly find emotion or one small note of truth in it.
Many of the poems focus on simple things that make life worth living. And on death. Which is ironic and not. On the one hand, death is a theme in most all writer's writing from the dawn of days. Where do we go? And why me? Special old me? The other irony is Ray's own early demise to cancer. Struck down at age 50. The last poems are written through that glass darkly.
This particular collection contains every poem Raymond Carver ever wrote. In the back there are appendices, the first one containing his early, unpublished poems. I read these first, then went back and read in order of his four published collections so I could see his growth as a poet. He's an end-stop guy. When he's in an enjambment, he knows how to get out of it, so to speak. Lots of dependent clauses with periods. If you're enamored of complete sentences in your poetry and if grammar violations bother you, enter at your own school marm-ish risk.
Here are some sample works I like:
"Bobber"
On the Columbia River near Vantage,
Washington, we fished for whitefish
in the winter months; my dad, Swede-
Mr. Lindgren-and me. They used belly-reels,
pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown
flies baited with maggots.
They wanted distance and went clear out there
to the edge of the riffle.
I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole.
My dad kept his maggots alive and warm
under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink.
I liked him better than my dad for a time.
He lets me steer his car, teased me
about my name "Junior," and said
one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember
all this, and fish with my own son.
But my dad was right. I mean
he kept silent and looked into the river,
worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.
"This Morning"
This morning was something. A little snow
lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear
blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green,
as far as the eye could see.
Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went
for a walk -- determined not to return
until I took in what Nature had to offer.
I passed close to some old, bent-over trees.
Crossed a field strewn with rocks
where snow had drifted. Kept going
until I reached the bluff.
Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and
the gulls wheeling over the white beach
far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure
cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts
began to wander. I had to will
myself to see what I was seeing
and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what
mattered, not the other. (And I did see it,
for a minute or two!) For a minute or two
it crowded out the usual musings on
what was right, and what was wrong -- duty,
tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat
with my former wife. All the things
I hoped would go away this morning.
The stuff I live with every day. What
I've trampled on in order to stay alive.
But for a minute or two I did forget
myself and everything else. I know I did.
For when I turned back i didn't know
where I was. Until some birds rose up
from the gnarled trees. And flew
in the direction I needed to be going.
"My Dad's Wallet"
Long before he thought of his own death,
my dad said he wanted to lie close
to his parents. He missed them so
after they went away.
He said this enough that my mother remembered,
and I remembered. But when the breath
left his lungs and all signs of life
had faded, he found himself in a town
512 miles away from where he wanted most to be.
My dad, though. He was restless
even in death. Even in death
he had this one last trip to take.
All his life he liked to wander,
and now he had one more place to get to.
The undertaker said he’d arrange it,
not to worry. Some poor light
from the window fell on the dusty floor
where we waited that afternoon
until the man came out of the back room
and peeled off his rubber gloves.
He carried the smell of formaldehyde with him.
He was a big man, the undertaker said.
Then began to tell us why
he liked living in this small town.
This man who’d just opened up my dad’s veins.
How much is it going to cost? I said.
He took out his pad and pen and began
to write. First, the preparation charges.
Then he figured the transportation
of the remains at 22 cents a mile.
But this was a round-trip for the undertaker,
don’t forget. Plus, say, six meals
and two nights in a motel. He figured
some more. Add a surcharge of
$210 for his time and trouble,
and there you have it.
He thought we might argue.
There was a spot of color on
each of his cheeks as he looked up
from his figures. The same poor light
fell in the same poor place on
the dusty floor. My mother nodded
as if she understood. But she
hadn’t understood a word of it.
None of it made any sense to her,
beginning with the time she left home
with my dad. She only knew
that whatever was happening
was going to take money.
She reached into her purse and bought up
my dad’s wallet. The three of us
in that little room that afternoon.
Our breath coming and going.
We stared at the wallet for a minute.
Nobody said anything.
All the life had gone out of the wallet.
It was old and rent and soiled.
But it was my dad’s wallet. And she opened
it and looked inside. Drew out
a handful of money that would go
toward this last, most astounding, trip.
The best compliment I can pay a book is to say I won't pass it on to a like-minded friend. When I get a little selfish about a book, when I make permanent space like a star on Hollywood on the bookshelf so I can return to it for inspiration, ideas, and unpacking, it's a five plus. I realize he's not everybody's cuppa. He's not into rhyme, meter, or form poems of any sort. But that's a snapshot of me, too. Those don't much appeal to me.
As Mark Twain said of classics, so I say of poetry: I prefer water to fine wine. And if that says something about me, so be it!
November 4, 2011
God damn you, Raymond Carver. You spent time with Haruki Murakami when your books were selling better in Japan than America. Because the Japanese were infatuated by the deep roots of shame in your work, and we were too scared of how it made us feel. You spent time with Bukowski when he had money and threw it around like a man who understood how ephemeral it was. You were the best and no one knew it until you were dead. I love you, Raymond Carver. The same way I love my dad, like a god, untouchable and perfect in all of their flaws.
This book is the most perfect collection of poems on the face of the earth.
For Raymond Carver
Alley Wine
we drank until we bled
one way or
another.
three brothers tugging
at the same old bottle.
i hadn't eaten
in days but still I managed to shit my pants.
they doubled over
laughing.
but i did it so they'd have to take care of me for a change.
This book is the most perfect collection of poems on the face of the earth.
For Raymond Carver
Alley Wine
we drank until we bled
one way or
another.
three brothers tugging
at the same old bottle.
i hadn't eaten
in days but still I managed to shit my pants.
they doubled over
laughing.
but i did it so they'd have to take care of me for a change.
June 18, 2020
Acknowledgments
Preface
Introduction
FIRES (1983)
WHERE WATER COMES TOGETHER WITH
OTHER WATER (1985)
ULTRAMARINE (1986)
A NEW PATH TO THE WATERFALL (1989)
APPENDIXES: Including Uncollected Poems
Three of my faves below. And there were many!
STILL LOOKING OUT FOR
NUMBER ONE
Now that you've gone away for five days,
I'll smoke all the cigarettes I want,
where I want. Make biscuits and eat them
with jam and fat bacon. Loaf. Indulge
myself. Walk on the beach if I feel
like it. And I feel like it, alone and
thinking about when I was young. The people
then who loved me beyond reason.
And how I loved them above all others.
Except one. I'm saying I'll do everything
I want here while you're away!
But there's one thing I won't do.
I won't sleep in our bed without you.
No. It doesn't please me to do so.
I'll sleep were I damn well feel like it —
where I sleep best when you're away
and I can't hold you the way I do.
On the broken sofa in my study.
AN AFTERNOON
As he writes, without looking at the sea,
he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble.
The tide is going out across the shingle.
But it isn't that. No,
it's because at that moment she chooses
to walk into the room without any clothes on.
Drowsy, not even sure where she is
for a moment. She waves the hair from her forehead.
She sits on the toilet with her eyes closed,
head down. Legs sprawled. He sees her
through the doorway. Maybe
she's remembering what happened that morning.
For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him.
And sweetly smiles.
THE BEST TIME OF THE DAY
Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.
Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love
these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.
January 3, 2018
There’s a sense
that I’ve lost—not everything,
not everything, but far too much.
A part of my life forever.
*
Went on with my life. But
that memory entering like a spike.
*
The stars
burning holes in the sky. Becoming ash, yes.
But it’s all right, they’re supposed to do that.
Those lights we call stars.
Burn for a time and then die.
Me hell-bent. Wishing
it were tomorrow already.
*
[…] I was beginning to understand how it’s possible
to be in one place. And someplace else, too.
*
There was a time
I would’ve died for love.
No more. That center wouldn’t hold.
It collapsed. It gives off
no light. Its orbit
an orbit of weariness.
*
I remember the morning I closed the lid
on memory and turned the handle.
Locking it away forever.
Nobody knows what happened to me
out here, sea. Only you and I know.
*
The feeling of loss that gripped me then
grips me still. How can I communicate what I feel
about any of this?
*
Suppose I say ,summer,
write the word “hummingbird,”
put it in an envelope,
take it down the hill
to the box. When you open
my letter you will recall
those days and how much,
just how much, I love you.
that I’ve lost—not everything,
not everything, but far too much.
A part of my life forever.
*
Went on with my life. But
that memory entering like a spike.
*
The stars
burning holes in the sky. Becoming ash, yes.
But it’s all right, they’re supposed to do that.
Those lights we call stars.
Burn for a time and then die.
Me hell-bent. Wishing
it were tomorrow already.
*
[…] I was beginning to understand how it’s possible
to be in one place. And someplace else, too.
*
There was a time
I would’ve died for love.
No more. That center wouldn’t hold.
It collapsed. It gives off
no light. Its orbit
an orbit of weariness.
*
I remember the morning I closed the lid
on memory and turned the handle.
Locking it away forever.
Nobody knows what happened to me
out here, sea. Only you and I know.
*
The feeling of loss that gripped me then
grips me still. How can I communicate what I feel
about any of this?
*
Suppose I say ,summer,
write the word “hummingbird,”
put it in an envelope,
take it down the hill
to the box. When you open
my letter you will recall
those days and how much,
just how much, I love you.
November 9, 2014
Bagni di sole che diventano bagni di luce
Ho letto tutto il libro con spirito da bagnante: godendomi parole e immagini attraverso le ciglia, con occhi semichiusi e beati. Pensavo che il mio ego letterario fosse soddisfatto, ma dopo ho letto la postfazione della moglie di Carver. Ebbene: ho dovuto rileggerlo daccapo con occhi spalancati. Ed è stato uno stillicidio di luce continua. Non so se riesco a orientarmi tra le stelle, ma a forza di fissare tanta luminosità, adesso vedo impresso su ogni cosa un tondino. E se non è la forma di un'astro, gli assomiglia molto.
Ho letto tutto il libro con spirito da bagnante: godendomi parole e immagini attraverso le ciglia, con occhi semichiusi e beati. Pensavo che il mio ego letterario fosse soddisfatto, ma dopo ho letto la postfazione della moglie di Carver. Ebbene: ho dovuto rileggerlo daccapo con occhi spalancati. Ed è stato uno stillicidio di luce continua. Non so se riesco a orientarmi tra le stelle, ma a forza di fissare tanta luminosità, adesso vedo impresso su ogni cosa un tondino. E se non è la forma di un'astro, gli assomiglia molto.
November 10, 2019
I suoi racconti non mi avevano convinta, mi erano sembrati troppo "poveri", ma con le sue poesie Carver ce l’ha fatta a conquistarmi.
Chi sa di Poesia forse inorridirà vedendo le mie cinque stelle, ma le assegno piene e convinte. Sicuramente c’è di (molto) meglio in ambito poetico, però qui ho trovato una disarmante spontaneità, freschezza, luminosità e, pur nella loro semplicità, rivelano una sensibilità non comune. Da leggere e rileggere.
Chi sa di Poesia forse inorridirà vedendo le mie cinque stelle, ma le assegno piene e convinte. Sicuramente c’è di (molto) meglio in ambito poetico, però qui ho trovato una disarmante spontaneità, freschezza, luminosità e, pur nella loro semplicità, rivelano una sensibilità non comune. Da leggere e rileggere.
October 3, 2025
Don Raymond me tapó la boca: uno de los mejores narradores es también uno de los mejores poetas.
Mis respetos.
Mis respetos.
August 15, 2020
Non ho ancora letto i racconti di Carver e non ricordo perché, invece di quelli, ho scelto di acquistare la raccolta completa delle sue poesie.
Quelle di Carver non sembrano poesie vere e proprie, hanno più l’aspetto di micro-racconti in cui va a capo spesso (poesia in prosa, prosa poetica? boh!), però sono fresche, semplici, disarmanti.
Compagnia
Stamattina mi sono svegliato con la pioggia
che batteva sui vetri. E ho capito
che da molto tempo ormai,
posto davanti a un bivio,
ho scelto la via peggiore. Oppure,
semplicemente, la più facile.
Rispetto a quella virtuosa. O alla più ardua.
Questi pensieri mi vengono
quando sono giorni che sto da solo.
Come adesso. Ore passate
in compagnia del fesso che non sono altro.
Ore e ore
che somigliano tanto a una stanza angusta.
Con appena una striscia di moquette su cui camminare.
La semplicità, l’immediatezza, la capacità di lasciarsi stupire (e toccare, e interrogare, e commuovere, e ferire) dalle circostanze – tutte – propizie o avverse che siano; queste cose caratterizzano le poesie-non poesie di Carver; nessun volo pindarico, nessuna fuga nell’immaginario, solo lo stupore, la meraviglia del presente.
Il dono
Mi dici che non hai dormito bene. Ti confesso
che nemmeno io. Hai passato una nottataccia. “Anch’io”.
Siamo straordinariamente calmi e teneri l’un con l’altro
come se avvertissimo il nostro traballante stato mentale.
Come se ognuno sapesse cosa prova l’altro. Anche se,
naturalmente, non lo sappiamo. Non lo si sa mai. Non importa.
È la tenerezza che mi preme. È questo il dono
che mi commuove e mi prende tutto questa mattina.
Come tutte le mattine.
Non so perché ho comprato la raccolta delle poesie invece dei racconti, ma non è stato un errore farlo.
Quelle di Carver non sembrano poesie vere e proprie, hanno più l’aspetto di micro-racconti in cui va a capo spesso (poesia in prosa, prosa poetica? boh!), però sono fresche, semplici, disarmanti.
Compagnia
Stamattina mi sono svegliato con la pioggia
che batteva sui vetri. E ho capito
che da molto tempo ormai,
posto davanti a un bivio,
ho scelto la via peggiore. Oppure,
semplicemente, la più facile.
Rispetto a quella virtuosa. O alla più ardua.
Questi pensieri mi vengono
quando sono giorni che sto da solo.
Come adesso. Ore passate
in compagnia del fesso che non sono altro.
Ore e ore
che somigliano tanto a una stanza angusta.
Con appena una striscia di moquette su cui camminare.
La semplicità, l’immediatezza, la capacità di lasciarsi stupire (e toccare, e interrogare, e commuovere, e ferire) dalle circostanze – tutte – propizie o avverse che siano; queste cose caratterizzano le poesie-non poesie di Carver; nessun volo pindarico, nessuna fuga nell’immaginario, solo lo stupore, la meraviglia del presente.
Il dono
Mi dici che non hai dormito bene. Ti confesso
che nemmeno io. Hai passato una nottataccia. “Anch’io”.
Siamo straordinariamente calmi e teneri l’un con l’altro
come se avvertissimo il nostro traballante stato mentale.
Come se ognuno sapesse cosa prova l’altro. Anche se,
naturalmente, non lo sappiamo. Non lo si sa mai. Non importa.
È la tenerezza che mi preme. È questo il dono
che mi commuove e mi prende tutto questa mattina.
Come tutte le mattine.
Non so perché ho comprato la raccolta delle poesie invece dei racconti, ma non è stato un errore farlo.
April 10, 2022
Strah od policijskih kola koja staju pred kućom.
Strah da zaspim noću.
Strah da ne zaspim.
Strah od navale prošlosti.
Strah da sadašnjost izmiče.
Strah od telefona koji zvoni u gluvo doba noći.
Strah od oluja s munjama i gromovima.
Strah od čistačice sa mrljom na obrazu!
Strah od pasa za koje su mi rekli da ne ujedaju.
Strah od teskobe!
Strah da ću morati da identifikujem telo mrtvog prijatelja.
Strah da ostanem bez para.
Strah da ih imam previše, mada ljudi ne bi poverovali u to.
Strah od psiholoških profila.
Strah od kašnjenja i strah da ću stići pre ostalih.
Strah od rukopisa moje dece na kovertama.
Strah da će ona umreti pre mene, i da ću osećati krivicu.
Strah da ću morati da živim s majkom u njenoj starosti,
i mojoj.
Stah od konfuzije.
Strah da će se ovaj dan okončati loše.
Strah da se probudim i otkrijem da si otišla.
Strah da ne volim i strah da nedovoljno volim.
Strah da to što volim bude pogubno za one koje volim.
Strah od smrti.
Strah od predugog življenja.
Strah od smrti.
Rekao sam to.
Još uvijek čitam, ali jasno je ko dan da sam oduševljena i da će ovo biti jedna petica ko kuća. Ne mogu a da ne podijelim s vama svoju emociju tokom čitanja Karverove poezije. Štaviše, sviđa mi se više od njegovih priča. Zasad mi je omiljena Još uvek tražim onu pravu, ali izdvojila sam vam Strah. Odoh uživati i dalje, a vi, ako ste u prilici, pronađite ovu zbirku sabranih pjesama.
Strah da zaspim noću.
Strah da ne zaspim.
Strah od navale prošlosti.
Strah da sadašnjost izmiče.
Strah od telefona koji zvoni u gluvo doba noći.
Strah od oluja s munjama i gromovima.
Strah od čistačice sa mrljom na obrazu!
Strah od pasa za koje su mi rekli da ne ujedaju.
Strah od teskobe!
Strah da ću morati da identifikujem telo mrtvog prijatelja.
Strah da ostanem bez para.
Strah da ih imam previše, mada ljudi ne bi poverovali u to.
Strah od psiholoških profila.
Strah od kašnjenja i strah da ću stići pre ostalih.
Strah od rukopisa moje dece na kovertama.
Strah da će ona umreti pre mene, i da ću osećati krivicu.
Strah da ću morati da živim s majkom u njenoj starosti,
i mojoj.
Stah od konfuzije.
Strah da će se ovaj dan okončati loše.
Strah da se probudim i otkrijem da si otišla.
Strah da ne volim i strah da nedovoljno volim.
Strah da to što volim bude pogubno za one koje volim.
Strah od smrti.
Strah od predugog življenja.
Strah od smrti.
Rekao sam to.
Još uvijek čitam, ali jasno je ko dan da sam oduševljena i da će ovo biti jedna petica ko kuća. Ne mogu a da ne podijelim s vama svoju emociju tokom čitanja Karverove poezije. Štaviše, sviđa mi se više od njegovih priča. Zasad mi je omiljena Još uvek tražim onu pravu, ali izdvojila sam vam Strah. Odoh uživati i dalje, a vi, ako ste u prilici, pronađite ovu zbirku sabranih pjesama.
December 28, 2007
I know it's hip to hate him and now with the Lish melodrama going on, he's even more tarnished I suppose. But I've always been a big fan of the writing even with its uneven quality. The poems are often despised for their prosoid, talky, confessionalist New Yorker qualities...there are some like that in here but the vast majority strike me as successful transpositions of a particular school of Russian poetry into English. He's very Russian for an American. I think he was trying to write up to Chekhov's level all along, and I think he succeeded in much of the fiction and some of the poetry. I admire the bleakness, and the eye is spookily dead on in the imagery often. He was a good (if overextended) man and a great writer. Out of that disparity--which Carver was exceedingly cognizant of, and agonized over--much of the writing is born. His work often manages to make morality (the ethical) an intersting and even beautiful subject. I admire him and I admire his books. There's a reason his books get translated into so many languages.
April 17, 2021
This is a great collection. I had a hard time choosing a favorite.
The Best Time of The Day-
Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.
Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love
these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.
Grief -
Woke up early this morning and from my bed
looked far across the Strait to see
a small boat moving through the choppy water,
a single running light on. Remembered
my friend who used to shout
his dead wife's name from hilltops
around Perugia. Who set a plate
for her at his simple table long after
she was gone. And opened the windows
so she could have fresh air. Such display
I found embarrassing. So did his other
friends. I couldn't see it.
Not until this morning.
The Best Time of The Day-
Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.
Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love
these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.
Grief -
Woke up early this morning and from my bed
looked far across the Strait to see
a small boat moving through the choppy water,
a single running light on. Remembered
my friend who used to shout
his dead wife's name from hilltops
around Perugia. Who set a plate
for her at his simple table long after
she was gone. And opened the windows
so she could have fresh air. Such display
I found embarrassing. So did his other
friends. I couldn't see it.
Not until this morning.
July 20, 2020
Manda la posizione.
Eccola.
ATTESA
Esci dalla statale a sinistra e
scendi giù dal colle. Arrivato
in fondo, gira ancora a sinistra.
Continua sempre a sinistra. La strada
arriva a un bivio. Ancora a sinistra.
C’è un torrente, sulla sinistra.
Prosegui. Poco prima
della fine della strada incroci
un’altra strada. Prendi quella
e nessun’altra. Altrimenti
ti rovinerai la vita
per sempre. C’è una casa di tronchi
con il tetto di tavole, a sinistra.
Non è quella che cerchi. È quella
appresso, subito dopo
una salita. La casa
dove gli alberi sono carichi
di frutta. Dove flox, forsizia e calendula
crescono rigogliose. È quella
la casa dove, in piedi sulla soglia,
c’è una donna
con il sole nei capelli. Quella
che è rimasta in attesa
fino a ora.
La donna che ti ama.
L’unica che può dirti:
“Come mai ci hai messo tanto?
Questa raccolta, dal titolo fantastico Orientarsi con le stelle abbraccia tutta la breve vita di Raymond Carver, interrotta all'età di 50 anni per un cancro ai polmoni.
Carver noto come autore di short story qui è in veste di poeta.
La poesia non era un semplice passatempo, un hobby a cui dedicarsi quando voleva riposarsi dalla narrativa, era invece una necessità spirituale, come dice l'ultima moglie Tess Gallagher nella bellissima postfazione in calce alla raccolta.
Queste poesie hanno una grande immediatezza narrativa sono assolutamente autobiografiche e con caratteristica di diario.
Uno strano ibrido tra poesia e prosa, quasi delle pillole di racconti in forma di poesia.
Ma, secondo me, l’andare a capo prima della fine della riga non fa sì che una frase diventi un verso poetico, per la mia sensibilità estetica lo ritengo una forzatura stilistica e molte poesie di Carver, non però la poesia che ho riportato sopra, hanno questo limite; per questo le mie tre stelle e mezzo; putroppo Gr, con tutte le sue sofisticherie, non permette il mezzo punto.
Ma nonostante questo mio soggettivo fastidio formale l'anima di Carver traspare grondante umanità, vita vissuta e grande attenzione per gli altri e le sue poesie forse finiscono per chiarire ciò che a volte rimane oscuro nei suoi racconti in prosa.
Eccola.
ATTESA
Esci dalla statale a sinistra e
scendi giù dal colle. Arrivato
in fondo, gira ancora a sinistra.
Continua sempre a sinistra. La strada
arriva a un bivio. Ancora a sinistra.
C’è un torrente, sulla sinistra.
Prosegui. Poco prima
della fine della strada incroci
un’altra strada. Prendi quella
e nessun’altra. Altrimenti
ti rovinerai la vita
per sempre. C’è una casa di tronchi
con il tetto di tavole, a sinistra.
Non è quella che cerchi. È quella
appresso, subito dopo
una salita. La casa
dove gli alberi sono carichi
di frutta. Dove flox, forsizia e calendula
crescono rigogliose. È quella
la casa dove, in piedi sulla soglia,
c’è una donna
con il sole nei capelli. Quella
che è rimasta in attesa
fino a ora.
La donna che ti ama.
L’unica che può dirti:
“Come mai ci hai messo tanto?
Questa raccolta, dal titolo fantastico Orientarsi con le stelle abbraccia tutta la breve vita di Raymond Carver, interrotta all'età di 50 anni per un cancro ai polmoni.
Carver noto come autore di short story qui è in veste di poeta.
La poesia non era un semplice passatempo, un hobby a cui dedicarsi quando voleva riposarsi dalla narrativa, era invece una necessità spirituale, come dice l'ultima moglie Tess Gallagher nella bellissima postfazione in calce alla raccolta.
Queste poesie hanno una grande immediatezza narrativa sono assolutamente autobiografiche e con caratteristica di diario.
Uno strano ibrido tra poesia e prosa, quasi delle pillole di racconti in forma di poesia.
Ma, secondo me, l’andare a capo prima della fine della riga non fa sì che una frase diventi un verso poetico, per la mia sensibilità estetica lo ritengo una forzatura stilistica e molte poesie di Carver, non però la poesia che ho riportato sopra, hanno questo limite; per questo le mie tre stelle e mezzo; putroppo Gr, con tutte le sue sofisticherie, non permette il mezzo punto.
Ma nonostante questo mio soggettivo fastidio formale l'anima di Carver traspare grondante umanità, vita vissuta e grande attenzione per gli altri e le sue poesie forse finiscono per chiarire ciò che a volte rimane oscuro nei suoi racconti in prosa.
November 26, 2016
his style is like a softer, more subtle, more long-winded bukowski.
it was ok / decent but i would recommend his short stories over his poems in general and would recommend finding and reading specific poems (online) over reading a super long collection like this. Poems such as: You Don't Know What Love Is (an evening with Charles Bukowski) , Your Dog Dies , Drinking While Driving.
it was ok / decent but i would recommend his short stories over his poems in general and would recommend finding and reading specific poems (online) over reading a super long collection like this. Poems such as: You Don't Know What Love Is (an evening with Charles Bukowski) , Your Dog Dies , Drinking While Driving.
January 27, 2018
There's more to Raymond Carver than short fiction.
June 6, 2021
ULTRAMARINE has 'The Pen', first line: “the pen that told the truth went into the washing machine for its trouble...”
As a fountain pen user this gave me pain. As a writer I knew just which pen it was.
As a fountain pen user this gave me pain. As a writer I knew just which pen it was.
Read
July 22, 2019These poems are Carver at his most distilled: Carver the drinker, and Carver in recovery. Carver the reader, particularly of Chekhov, the outdoorsman, the worker, the devoted husband, the cigarette-breathed loser who picks up barmaids, the fighter, the big ol' softie, the man who knew Haruki Murakami before anyone else in America, and much more. What he lacks in poetic ability, he makes up for in heart, and while there's not a lot of technical brilliance, there's this sense that these are miniature slivers of short-story, all told with a profoundly empathetic voice.
Like many of his colleagues in American literature at the time, he was once an archetypal, self-destructive, blustering, alcoholic poète maudite. Unlike a lot of his colleagues, he eventually managed to connect. The sybaritic lifestyle eventually caught up with R.C., but he beat his demons. All of Us shows him from beginning to end.
Like many of his colleagues in American literature at the time, he was once an archetypal, self-destructive, blustering, alcoholic poète maudite. Unlike a lot of his colleagues, he eventually managed to connect. The sybaritic lifestyle eventually caught up with R.C., but he beat his demons. All of Us shows him from beginning to end.
October 1, 2012
Último fragmento
¿Y conseguiste lo que
querías en esta vida?
Lo conseguí.
¿Y que querías?
Considerarme amado, sentirme
amado sobre la tierra.
¿Y conseguiste lo que
querías en esta vida?
Lo conseguí.
¿Y que querías?
Considerarme amado, sentirme
amado sobre la tierra.
April 4, 2024
Rain
Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.
Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.
Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgivable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.
Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.
Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.
Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgivable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.
August 26, 2009
Your Dog Dies
You Don't Know What Love Is (an evening with Charles Bukowski)
The Mailman as Cancer Patient
The Ashtray
Still Looking Out for Number One
Next Year
Energy
Locking Yourself Out, Then Trying to Get Back In
My Boat
Plus
Reading Something in the Restaurant
The Author of Her Misfortune
The Possible
An Account
Waiting
Left off the highway and
down the hill. At the
bottom, hang another left.
Keep bearing left. The road
will make a Y. Left again.
There's a creek on the left.
Keep going. Just before
the road ends, there'll be
another road. Take it
and no other. Otherwise,
your life will be ruined
forever. There's a log house
with a shake roof, on the left.
It's not that house. It's
the next house, just over
a rise. The house
where trees are laden with
fruit. Where phlox, forsythia,
and marigold grow. It's
the house where the woman
stands in the doorway
wearing sun in her hair. The one
who's been waiting
all this time.
The woman who loves you.
The one who can say,
"What's kept you?"
The Debate
Some Prose on Poetry
What the Doctor Said
The Man Outside
You Don't Know What Love Is (an evening with Charles Bukowski)
The Mailman as Cancer Patient
The Ashtray
Still Looking Out for Number One
Next Year
Energy
Locking Yourself Out, Then Trying to Get Back In
My Boat
Plus
Reading Something in the Restaurant
The Author of Her Misfortune
The Possible
An Account
Waiting
Left off the highway and
down the hill. At the
bottom, hang another left.
Keep bearing left. The road
will make a Y. Left again.
There's a creek on the left.
Keep going. Just before
the road ends, there'll be
another road. Take it
and no other. Otherwise,
your life will be ruined
forever. There's a log house
with a shake roof, on the left.
It's not that house. It's
the next house, just over
a rise. The house
where trees are laden with
fruit. Where phlox, forsythia,
and marigold grow. It's
the house where the woman
stands in the doorway
wearing sun in her hair. The one
who's been waiting
all this time.
The woman who loves you.
The one who can say,
"What's kept you?"
The Debate
Some Prose on Poetry
What the Doctor Said
The Man Outside
November 13, 2024
Carver’s best poetry is in his stories. Few of the works collected here are actual poems. They’re more like prose crumbs, rubbed between the fingers, and sprinkled higgledy-piggledy across the page. As with most American poets, form, rhyme and lines that scan weren't Carver’s strong point.
I doubt many of the poems excavated here were meant to see the light of day. A few people might scribble ‘My Son / How many times did I want you dead?’ in a notebook; fewer, surely, would want that line printed. The narrow focus of the poems - poor me, poor me - wearies. Had the editors made a selection, not a collection, this problem might have been remedied.
Towards the end when Carver was dying of lung cancer, the self-pity evaporates entirely. By all rights, the poems should get worse. Instead, they get better. Whatever their source, they read like tales. The memorable poems are either monologues or compressed stories -'You Don't Know What Love Is', ‘Lemonade’, ‘Pure Gravy’, and, of course, ‘Late Fragment.’ Carver’s stories speak to everyone; his poetry speaks largely about himself. Consequently, its value is limited.
I doubt many of the poems excavated here were meant to see the light of day. A few people might scribble ‘My Son / How many times did I want you dead?’ in a notebook; fewer, surely, would want that line printed. The narrow focus of the poems - poor me, poor me - wearies. Had the editors made a selection, not a collection, this problem might have been remedied.
Towards the end when Carver was dying of lung cancer, the self-pity evaporates entirely. By all rights, the poems should get worse. Instead, they get better. Whatever their source, they read like tales. The memorable poems are either monologues or compressed stories -'You Don't Know What Love Is', ‘Lemonade’, ‘Pure Gravy’, and, of course, ‘Late Fragment.’ Carver’s stories speak to everyone; his poetry speaks largely about himself. Consequently, its value is limited.
November 17, 2022
“¿Quién no se ha sentido alguna vez desarmado ante la poesía que exige mucho menos de lo que nos entrega con absoluta generosidad?”, escribe Tess Gallagher, poeta y esposa de Raymond Carver, en el prólogo de este libro.
La poesía de Carver parece simple, quizás por sus temas o la sencillez de su lenguaje, pero también alcanza una profundidad inesperada, como pozos hondos de melancolía que se abren entre sus versos. Y su mirada paciente también le permite descubrir belleza en lo cotidiano, en lo que está a su alrededor, en su presente y también en su pasado.
Escribe sobre él y la gente de su historia personal; sobre anécdotas y objetos cotidianos; sobre paisajes, paseos por la naturaleza y viajes de pesca. Escribe sobre el amor por su esposa y sobre la paz con que acepta la proximidad de su propia muerte.
Pero además, así como sus cuentos tienen destellos de poesía, muchos de sus poemas cuentan pequeñas historias, como semillas de cuentos a los que les bastan una o dos páginas para mostrar lo que importa.
Salgo del libro con la sensación de conocer a Ray, de haber visitado a un viejo amigo.
La poesía de Carver parece simple, quizás por sus temas o la sencillez de su lenguaje, pero también alcanza una profundidad inesperada, como pozos hondos de melancolía que se abren entre sus versos. Y su mirada paciente también le permite descubrir belleza en lo cotidiano, en lo que está a su alrededor, en su presente y también en su pasado.
Escribe sobre él y la gente de su historia personal; sobre anécdotas y objetos cotidianos; sobre paisajes, paseos por la naturaleza y viajes de pesca. Escribe sobre el amor por su esposa y sobre la paz con que acepta la proximidad de su propia muerte.
Pero además, así como sus cuentos tienen destellos de poesía, muchos de sus poemas cuentan pequeñas historias, como semillas de cuentos a los que les bastan una o dos páginas para mostrar lo que importa.
Salgo del libro con la sensación de conocer a Ray, de haber visitado a un viejo amigo.
May 1, 2025
I’ve read just about all of Carver’s poetry, but there’s something about having it all in one compendium that makes it feel dire when read all the way through. You can really chart the steady progression that his psyche makes as he plods toward his end; early poems are filled with a crazed sort of hate for himself, and after he becomes sick, each poem gets self-reflexive and has this unspoken veneer of acceptance that makes every piece feel like a goodbye. The last twenty pages are haunting— “Gravy,” “No Need,” and “Late Fragment” we’re already some of my favorites, but after the added context of his whole body of work, they become flat-out masterpieces.
Ray, you never knew me, and I never knew you, but your ghost continues to move me. Haunt on.
Ray, you never knew me, and I never knew you, but your ghost continues to move me. Haunt on.
April 1, 2025
pequeños cuentitos en forma de verso
March 22, 2021
Kad sam tek počeo da čitam, Karverova poezija mi se nije preterano dopala. Ne zato što je njen izraz, u većini slučajeva, suštinski prozni, već zato što me nisu ubedile. Međutim, kako sam odmakao od polovine i približavao se kraju, sve više je uspevao da me kupi. I zaista, možda je poslednja zbirka u okviru ovih sabranih pesama, nešto najbolje i vrhunac Karverovog poetskog izraza. Takođe, moguće je da su na mene pesme ostavile znatno slabiji utisak jer suštinski prezirem ,,antologije'' i sve to što je ,,sabrano'' na jednom mestu.
Voleo bih da uzmem Karverove kratke priče, po čemu i jeste poznat. I to se i u poeziji vidi. Ono što me fascinira kod njega jeste senzibilitet koji, naprosto, kao da otvara vrata nečega što ne možete da obujmite logikom, ali savršeno razumete kao ljudsko ili kao deo ljudskog.
Voleo bih da uzmem Karverove kratke priče, po čemu i jeste poznat. I to se i u poeziji vidi. Ono što me fascinira kod njega jeste senzibilitet koji, naprosto, kao da otvara vrata nečega što ne možete da obujmite logikom, ali savršeno razumete kao ljudsko ili kao deo ljudskog.
November 17, 2016
Like many volumes of collected poems, this book was long, and I enjoyed it more and more as I went along. Carver is known for his short stories and is often compared to Chekhov. He favors a strong narrative voice in poetry, too, and lays himself bare on the page. I admire how he accepts responsibility. “This is how it went down, I admit it was my own damn fault” is a recurring theme. He’s matter of fact, never maudlin.
Carver’s early adult life was in a tailspin: a teen marriage, first baby before college, struggling to support his growing family, giving himself to alcoholism and chain smoking. Unfortunately, he died an early death to lung cancer at 50, just when he seemed to be racing the clock of missed opportunity.
These poems were published from 1983 to 1988, the year of his death, with uncollected poems added at the end. Knowing as I read that his death was approaching added poignancy to the later poems, especially since he was finally enjoying happy married life with poet Tess Gallagher and writing prolifically. I love the simple language without added drama when he tells us (“What the Doctor Said”)
“He said it doesn’t look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them”
We all have moments of disaster when time almost stops and we watch ourselves within a scene without being wholly there. He ends
“I jumped up and shook hands with this man who’d just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may even have thanked him habit being so strong”
Most of Carver’s poems use standard punctuation. The absence of periods and commas in this poem adds to the feeling that the scene in the doctor’s office was running out of control. It’s hard to catch our own breaths while reading it.
The biggest gut punches are Carver’s poems about himself, his parents, first wife, and children all set on self-destruction. In “To My Daughter” he says
“You’re a beautiful, drunk daughter.
But you’re a drunk. I can’t say you’re breaking
my heart. I don’t have a heart when it comes
to this booze thing.”
and ends
“Daughter, you can’t drink.
It will kill you. Like it did your mother, and me.
Like it did.”
I actually liked his darker poems the best for their unblinking honesty, but variety is good. Just as his life got happier through sobriety and love, the poems lighten up. There are moments of whimsy and humor, romance, and a good many nature poems. Carver loved to fish.
While most people would despair at learning they were going to die at 50, Carver sees it in a different light
“Gravy
No other word will do. For that’s what it was. Gravy.
Gravy, these past ten years.
Alive, sober, working, loving and
being loved by a good woman. Eleven years
ago he was told he had six months to live
at the rate he was going. So he changed his ways
somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it….”
What a beautiful love poem that is. Yet my favorite writing in this book wasn’t a poem, but “Some Prose on Poetry,” a three-page, personal essay about a chance encounter that led him to poetry. “…nothing can explain…such a moment: the moment when the very thing I needed most in my life –call it a polestar – was casually, generously given to me.”
Carver’s early adult life was in a tailspin: a teen marriage, first baby before college, struggling to support his growing family, giving himself to alcoholism and chain smoking. Unfortunately, he died an early death to lung cancer at 50, just when he seemed to be racing the clock of missed opportunity.
These poems were published from 1983 to 1988, the year of his death, with uncollected poems added at the end. Knowing as I read that his death was approaching added poignancy to the later poems, especially since he was finally enjoying happy married life with poet Tess Gallagher and writing prolifically. I love the simple language without added drama when he tells us (“What the Doctor Said”)
“He said it doesn’t look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them”
We all have moments of disaster when time almost stops and we watch ourselves within a scene without being wholly there. He ends
“I jumped up and shook hands with this man who’d just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may even have thanked him habit being so strong”
Most of Carver’s poems use standard punctuation. The absence of periods and commas in this poem adds to the feeling that the scene in the doctor’s office was running out of control. It’s hard to catch our own breaths while reading it.
The biggest gut punches are Carver’s poems about himself, his parents, first wife, and children all set on self-destruction. In “To My Daughter” he says
“You’re a beautiful, drunk daughter.
But you’re a drunk. I can’t say you’re breaking
my heart. I don’t have a heart when it comes
to this booze thing.”
and ends
“Daughter, you can’t drink.
It will kill you. Like it did your mother, and me.
Like it did.”
I actually liked his darker poems the best for their unblinking honesty, but variety is good. Just as his life got happier through sobriety and love, the poems lighten up. There are moments of whimsy and humor, romance, and a good many nature poems. Carver loved to fish.
While most people would despair at learning they were going to die at 50, Carver sees it in a different light
“Gravy
No other word will do. For that’s what it was. Gravy.
Gravy, these past ten years.
Alive, sober, working, loving and
being loved by a good woman. Eleven years
ago he was told he had six months to live
at the rate he was going. So he changed his ways
somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it….”
What a beautiful love poem that is. Yet my favorite writing in this book wasn’t a poem, but “Some Prose on Poetry,” a three-page, personal essay about a chance encounter that led him to poetry. “…nothing can explain…such a moment: the moment when the very thing I needed most in my life –call it a polestar – was casually, generously given to me.”
June 24, 2010
I'm not finished with this book yet, but I already know without a doubt that it gets a perfect score. I'm even breaking my rule against rating the book before I finish it, a practice my linear sensibility finds distasteful. I guess it makes sense that it is a book of poetry to pull me away from the careful mental boundaries and boxes I construct for myself.
Here is a taste of Carver's absolute gorgeousness. This poem, included in this volume, has long been a dear favorite of mine-- it is what induced me to find this book in the first place. How can life be captured so succinctly, so accurately, so heartbreakingly?
Late Fragment
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
Here is a taste of Carver's absolute gorgeousness. This poem, included in this volume, has long been a dear favorite of mine-- it is what induced me to find this book in the first place. How can life be captured so succinctly, so accurately, so heartbreakingly?
Late Fragment
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
December 19, 2017
"E hai ottenuto quello che
volevi da questa vita, nonostante tutto?
Sì.
E cos'è che volevi?
Potermi dire amato, sentirmi
amato sulla terra."
Una raccolta di poesie moderne ed originali, sia nella forma (a volte somiglianti alla prosa, a volte libere da figure retoriche e parole auliche) sia nel contenuto o nel modo in cui viene esposto.
I temi sono molteplici: si spazia dall'amore al distacco, dal piacere al disprezzo, dalla leggerezza al rancore; tutto questo per scoprire l'animo di Carver, un autore non facile da amare, da capire.
Ma quando lo si scopre fino in fondo e ci si lascia andare al ritmo, alla spontaneità e alla veridicità delle sue parole, alle emozioni che prova e trasmette al lettore, non si può non apprezzarlo e lasciare anche un pezzo di noi in questo libro.
volevi da questa vita, nonostante tutto?
Sì.
E cos'è che volevi?
Potermi dire amato, sentirmi
amato sulla terra."
Una raccolta di poesie moderne ed originali, sia nella forma (a volte somiglianti alla prosa, a volte libere da figure retoriche e parole auliche) sia nel contenuto o nel modo in cui viene esposto.
I temi sono molteplici: si spazia dall'amore al distacco, dal piacere al disprezzo, dalla leggerezza al rancore; tutto questo per scoprire l'animo di Carver, un autore non facile da amare, da capire.
Ma quando lo si scopre fino in fondo e ci si lascia andare al ritmo, alla spontaneità e alla veridicità delle sue parole, alle emozioni che prova e trasmette al lettore, non si può non apprezzarlo e lasciare anche un pezzo di noi in questo libro.
January 11, 2020
Alfaguara saca versión bilingüe. Probablemente el único problema con este magnifico libro bilingüe (que usa la bella portada brit) es que el texto original de cada piema de Carver está en las notas de pie y no en página opuesta a la versión española. De Carver qué decir, solo que lo gigante de sus relatos opaca al muy buen poeta.
April 5, 2016
Thank you, Mr. Carver.
February 3, 2015
Beautiful... didn't know Carver was such a lover, of life, of love, of everything. Many of these poems will make you stop and savor, enjoying every word and how masterfully he put them together.
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