A New Path to the Waterfall

by Raymond Carver, Tess Gallagher (Introduction)

Raymond Carver, author of 'Where I'm Calling From', is widely considered one of the great short story writers of our time. A New Path to the Waterfall was Carver's last book, and shows a writer telling the truth as best as he knows how in the time left to him. The sixty-odd poems in this collection are linked by Carver with selections from other writers, most notably Chekhov, whose work was an inspiration and a guide, and by the cumulative force of the life and death questions he poses in them. As Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet guided countless readers discovering their true love and work, Carver's book will guide those in the process of celebrating a limited life and mourning the inescapable end of it. A New Path to the Waterfall is an essential book for those who admire Carver's work, and testament to the transcendent strength of the human spirit. In her introductory essay, Tess Gallagher, Carver's companion and fellow writer, lays out the circumstances of their last years together with matter-of-fact grace.

Genres: Poetry, Fiction, Short Stories, Literature, American, The United States Of America, 20th Century

126 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1989

About the author

Carver 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.

Reviews

[Julie G · Rating 5 out of 5]

Down below the window, on the deck, some ragged-looking
birds gather at the feeder. The same birds, I think,
that come every day to eat and quarrel. Time was, time was,
they cry and strike at each other. It's nearly time, yes.
The sky stays dark all day, the wind is from the west and
won't stop blowing. . . Give me your hand for a time.
Hold on to mine. That's right, yes. Squeeze hard.
Time was we thought we had time on our side. Time was, time was,
those ragged birds cry.

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Naches River. Just below the falls.
Twenty miles from any town. A day
of dense sunlight
heavy with odors of love.
How long have we?
Already you body, sharpness of Picasso,
is drying in this highland air.
I towel down your back, your hips,
with my undershirt.
Time is a mountain lion.
We laugh at nothing,
as I touch your breasts
even the ground squirrels
are dazzled.

— — —

My wife had disappeared along with her clothes.
She left behind two nylon stockings, and
a hairbrush overlooked behind the bed.
I should like to call your attention
to these shapely nylons, and to the strong
dark hair caught in the bristles of the brush.
I drop the nylons into the garbage sack; the brush
I'll keep and use. It is only the bed
that seems strange and impossible to account for.

— — —

I see an empty place at the table.
Whose? Who else's? Who am I kidding?
The boat's waiting. No need for oars
or a wind. I've left the key
in the same place. You know where.
Remember me and all we did together.
Now, hold me tight. That's it. Kiss me
hard on the lips. There. Now
let me go, my dearest. Let me go.
We shall not meet again in this life,
so kiss me goodbye now. Here, kiss me again.
Once more. There. That's enough.
Now, my dearest, let me go.
It's time to be on the way.

— — —

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.

[Dave Schaafsma · Rating 4 out of 5]

The Human Heart, That Old Port

Raymond Carver was one of the best short story writers of all time. He came from a chaotic working class family, with a violent alcoholic father. He himself pretty much destroyed his life through alcohol abuse, and many of his stories emerged out of that life and his experiences with AA. He was married at 19, had three kids by the time he was 23, and early on admits he took on “full-time drinking as a serious pursuit.” He was dead by fifty, but ten years before he died he gave up booze, and met the poet Tess Gallagher. This poem is in the collection A New Path to the Waterfall, his last book, a collection of poems:

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. And he was going
nowhere but down. So he changed his ways
somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it, up to and including when he was told about,
well, some things that were breaking down and
building up inside his head. “Don’t weep for me,”
he said to his friends. “I’m a lucky man.
I’ve had ten years longer than I or anyone
expected. Pure Gravy. And don’t forget it.”

I was never a big fan of Carver's poetry, but I was rereading some of his short story collections recently and at a used book sale found a copy of this beautiful boxed hardcover edition of his poems, just 200 copies of the edition produced posthumously and signed by his wife Tess Gallagher (mine’s #95; I knew you just had to know). It’s a gorgeous artifact, in other words. I soon after read a lovely review by Ilse of another collection of his poetry, so immediately began reading this. Synchronicity! Sometimes there is a time when a book is just telling you to read it. It gave me the opportunity to re-evaluate his poetry and see him again, at the end, still writing, facing death.

In short, I think this is Carver’s best collection of poetry. Gallagher, in her fine introduction, argues for Carver as poet, though early on he admits he just wrote poem-like things when he wasn’t doing the thing he really wanted to do, fiction. These are often story poems, but there’s a lyricism here and there in these poems that I didn’t find in his early poetry. His basic writing aesthetic is a kind of brutally honest realism, no sentimental affectations or flowery prose. Tough. And he keeps to that here, largely, but he’s somewhat softened by the love of his life in his last years, I think. Here he speaks of resources he turns to for his poems:

“It was all or nothing. Lightening, water,
Fish, cigarettes, cards, machinery,
The human heart, that old port
Even the woman’s lips against
The receiver, even that.
The curl of her lip.”

This follows in part from the advice of his mentor, Chekov:

“Be sure not to discuss your hero's state of mind. Make it clear from his actions."

That old saw: Show, don’t tell.

Well, I don’t love all the poetry, but I like in these late poems the better blending—for my tastes—of the lyrical with the commonplace, of the straightforward, no-nonsense language with the sudden spark of insight. The poems sometimes echo the force of his best stories. There’s heart in them.

One of the most fascinating aspects of this particular book is the conversation it has with other writers throughout, though especially Chekhov, placing excerpts from his and other writers’ works between some of the poems. Maybe when many of us read, we read with our lives, we weigh our experiences against what we read, we heal ourselves sometimes through reading, as Carver certainly shows that he did in and through this book. In this collection, Carver teaches us how to face the darkness, with love and grace. In the process he visits with what seems to me honesty some of his past experiences—with his father, his ex-wife, his son, all those drunken nights—and his present struggles with cancer, revived every day by the writing, and by Tess, as he would seem to suggest in this selection from Chekhov:

“. . . and with a burning pain in my heart I realized how unnecessary, how petty, and how deceptive all that had hindered us from loving was. I understood that when you love you must either, in your reasonings about that love, start from what is highest, from what is more important than happiness or unhappiness, sin or virtue in their accepted meaning, or you must not reason at all.”

[Jeannie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Thanks to my Goodreads friend Julie for recommending Raymond Carver. This is a an emotional book of poetry. I had tears in my eyes reading the last few poems. I love this book!


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.

[Chandler Chandler · Rating 5 out of 5]

Love Carver. Hands down he's my favorite author. I love his funny reflections on his former life of heavy drinking. He never quit smoking though which lead to his death. Since it's written by Carver when he knows he's dying, it's also very powerful.
It includes my favorite poem:
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. And he was going
nowhere but down. So he changed his ways
somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it, up to and including when he was told about,
well, some things that were breaking down and
building up inside his head. "Don't weep for me,"
he said to his friends. "I'm a lucky man.
I've had ten years longer than I or anyone
expected. Pure Gravy. And don't forget it

[Northpapers · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sometimes, briefly, I wish I could separate concerns about craftsmanship from emotional impact. Shortly after those times, I usually think about how deeply intertwined the two are, and how that distinction is maybe a stupid one to make, because ideally, art makes interesting use of the overlap.

No author sits as neatly at the tense point between those two concerns than Raymond Carver the poet. And no collection of his work better embodies his no-frills depiction of deep emotional currents than this one, where he reckons with his own death in the months before he dies of cancer. And that context inevitably sparks dramatic feeling that can cloud the critical eye.

Anyway, I'm not a critic. I like to like what I read. And here were the dying words of one of my favorite writers.

I felt, sometimes, that he could have approached his subjects with a little more restraint or that he could have developed others. some of the punches landed a little bluntly. But that's part of the process of staring down your own death.

Tess Gallagher's introduction is beautiful, stirring, and integral to the book. There are several very good poems here. My favorites were, "Two Worlds," "The Moon, The Train," "The Letter," and "What the Doctor Said." Finally, I found the impact of "Late Fragment" irresistible. I cried.

[Marina · Rating 4 out of 5]

I light my first cigarette of the day and turn away from
the window with a shudder. The foghorn sounds again, filling me with apprehension, and then, then stupendous grief.

[Spencer · Rating 5 out of 5]

Poetry is reteaching me how to read

[Kokelector · Rating 5 out of 5]

Raymond Carver escribió hasta un día antes de su muerte. No podía dejar de hacerlo. Considerado el Chéjov Americano deja en este poemario sus reflexiones en torno a una vida dedicada a las letras, a la realidad, a la vida en esplendor y abismos. Versos que pueden ser leídos como prosa, que te interpelan de forma directa e intentan dialogar con tus lógicas. Extraordinario pasar por sus páginas y considerar que la pasión de escribir puede llegar a los ojos de los lectores y lectoras como si fuese una comunicación en vivo y en directo. A veces la poesía ayuda a sortear el día, y este poemario cumple con ese maravilloso objetivo.

⁣
(...) “¿𝘠 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦/𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳í𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘢?/𝘓𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘨𝘶í./¿𝘠 𝘲𝘶é 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳í𝘢𝘴?/𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘰, 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘮𝘦/𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘢.” “𝘔𝘪𝘳𝘰 𝘦𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘭á𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘨𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘥𝘦 𝘈𝘴𝘪𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘰/𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘰,/𝘮𝘪 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘢 𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘢 𝘺/𝘴𝘦 𝘷𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘳,/𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦 𝘥𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘰/𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦 𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘲𝘶é𝘭.” “𝘉𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘰, ¿𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘳 𝘲𝘶é 𝘯𝘰? 𝘌𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘰 𝘒𝘢𝘧𝘬𝘢 𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘰 𝘺/𝘢𝘣𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘰, 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘰 𝘯𝘰 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘶𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘳/𝘭𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘻𝘤𝘢.” “𝘍𝘶𝘪 𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘺, 𝘯𝘰 𝘴é 𝘱𝘰𝘳 𝘲𝘶é, 𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘫𝘦/𝘶𝘯 𝘷𝘢𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘢 𝘥𝘦 ����𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘴. 𝘓𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘮ó/𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘫𝘰: 𝘌𝘴𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘰, 𝘩𝘪𝘫𝘰. ¿𝘋𝘦 𝘥ó𝘯𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘢?/𝘋𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘰 —𝘥𝘪𝘫𝘦 𝘺𝘰./𝘊𝘳𝘦í𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳í𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘶 𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘳𝘦 —𝘥𝘪𝘫𝘰 𝘔𝘢𝘮á./𝘠 𝘭𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘰 —𝘥𝘪𝘫𝘦 𝘺𝘰—, 𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘪 𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘵í 𝘶𝘯 𝘷𝘢𝘴𝘰/𝘦𝘯 𝘦𝘭 𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘢 𝘺 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘮é 𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘷𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘴 𝘴ó𝘭𝘰/𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘭𝘰 𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯. 𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘰 𝘢 𝘗𝘢𝘱á —𝘥𝘪𝘫𝘦.” “𝘈𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳����𝘣𝘪𝘳 𝘶𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘮𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘷í𝘢/𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘢 𝘰𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘰, 𝘵𝘶𝘷𝘰 𝘭𝘢 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘪ó𝘯 𝘥𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦/𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰. 𝘋𝘦𝘫ó 𝘭𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘢 𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘳ó 𝘢 𝘴𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘳.” “𝘖𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘶𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳./𝘠 𝘤𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘢 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘢 𝘮ú𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘤á𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘢./𝘔𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘴 𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘰, 𝘦𝘵𝘤é𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢./𝘓𝘰𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘫𝘰𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘴. 𝘛𝘰𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘰./𝘖𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘢 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘫ó𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘢𝘴./𝘈 𝘭𝘢𝘴 𝘫ó𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘠 𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘰.” (...)

[G · Rating 5 out of 5]

Poesía incandescente. La intensidad de lo lírico rompe cualquier esquema. Parece que hay una estrategia y que está rota. En ese fracaso quizás anide el éxito del minimalismo. La estrategia de lo simple, lo directo, del aplanamiento del lenguaje sobre los pliegues de lo inmediato, produce en Carver un efecto paradójico. En vez de reducir, amplifica. Si sus cuentos son fulminantes para nosotros sus lectores víctimas, estas poesías, más implacables todavía, no conceden nada, ni la conciencia de ser lector víctima. Son versos de un Chéjov borracho, crudo, fracasado, resignado, conectado a la vida sólo por un invisible hilo luminoso hecho de palabras inquietantes. “Así eran las cosas. La verdad, es que no hay mucho más que / decir.” (p. 86). “Apagamos / las luces y nos metimos en la cama y quedamos en silencio. / El silencio de una casa en la que nadie puede dormir.” (p. 67). “Miro la cámara. / Mi sonrisa se hace de sal. Una sal / donde estoy de pie.” (p. 34). ¿Es Carver como la Edith del Génesis?, ¿está Orfeo en su genealogía directa? Creo que estas fisuras tienen sentido.

[Magnús Jochum Pálsson · Rating 4 out of 5]

Fyrsta bókin sem ég les eftir Raymond Carver og alls ekki sú síðasta. Yndislegur stíll. Svo er formið einhvern veginn mitt á milli þess að vera ljóð og prósi sem ég hafði gaman af (og hef heillast af í eigin skrifum).
Þetta er síðasta bókin hans, skrifuð þegar dauðinn var yfirvofndi svo það er mikill tilfinningaþrungi í sumum ljóðunum, sérstaklega undir rest.
Inn á milli koma síðan textabrot úr verkum Chekov sem tóna vel við ljóðin.

[Blaine Teppema · Rating 3 out of 5]

Anyone who knows me knows that Raymond Carver is my all time fav fiction writer, def not my fav poet though (although some of it was really really beautiful- I especially loved “Wine”, “His Bathrobe Pocket Stuffed with Notes”, and “Late Fragment” (just the best)). I also really appreciated the intro from his wife Tess Gallagher and the idea for the book, how they worked on it together and interspersed it with a bunch of Chekhov excerpts because he was Carver’s best-loved writer. Carver is to me what Chekhov must have been to him, as in, I will spend my entire life trying to rip him off. And as quoted by my girl miss Gallagher- “I have a right; I love him.”

[Arick · Rating 4 out of 5]

while his poetry isn't as stellar as his prose, Carver is still a force to be reckoned with. The poems that ended this volume... powerful stuff... to actually read this man accepting his death is incredible. With that said, don't start here if you are just getting into Carver. Do some short stories, then migrate to his poetry. This book made me cry. Well done.

[~**~Kait · Rating 5 out of 5]

purely meaningful, unpretentious writing. so good

[Sara Vidal · Rating 4 out of 5]

'but at that moment, sitting there in front of his tidy desk …. nagged by the memory of a poem he'd wanted to write...' oh yes this book of poems speaks to me.

[Brian M · Rating 5 out of 5]

The late life of Raymond Carver and the love of Tess Gallagher comes pouring from this book. A lovely and courageous final book that grapples with terminal illness, defiantly continues the work of creation and loving, and reflects on a life nearing its early completion. Devastating, remarkable.

[Armand · Rating 3 out of 5]

In one of the poems in Raymond Carver's "A New Path to the Waterfall ", called "His Bathrobe Pockets Stuffed with Notes", Ray Carver describes provides a list of short, written fragments found in someone's bathrobe pockets. To whom the bathrobe belongs to is a bit unclear. Butn I suspect it's supposed to be Ray Carver himself. In the poem, the notes in his pockets cover everything from personal memories, to a recollection of a Belgian painter, to Star Trek, and in many ways, that's what "A New Path to the Waterfall" is: a hodgepodge blend of the personal, the historic, the artistic, and the fantastic , including poems by Carver (loosely grouped by themes), translated works by other poets, snippets of Chekhov, and an introduction by Carver's second (?) wife, the writer Tess Gallagher. Her moving introduction tells the story of his death.

And- sadly- I have to admit that it really didn't grab me . This is unfortunate because I'm a big fan of his short fiction, although not entirely unpredictable, since I don't have much of a taste for poetry. I tried most of the poems in the book and some seemed more like journal entries, some of the longer ones lost me (I may have been trying too hard to find a theme), and the ones that I really liked tended to be the ones that weren't written by Carver to begin with (My favorite poem in the book is a translation of a Czeslaw Milosz poem). Of course, I was moved by Tess Gallagher's introduction, and there were some beautiful images and occasional world-wise phrasing that only Carver could produce, but overall the book just didn't pull me in me in the way I had hoped.

[Haley Mock · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sorry this will be long!!

My favorite author’s final words are a hard thing to rate. I love Raymond Carver and this was my introduction to his poetry. The forward by Tess Gallagher is lovely and necessary to understanding the intention behind the actual composition of the book itself. The final poems are the gut punch that makes me rate the entire book so highly. Legendary pieces that will stick with me.

Some of my favorite bits:

What The Doctor Said: “he said are you a religious man do you kneel down in forest groves and let yourself ask for help when you come to a waterfall mist blowing against your face and arms do you stop and ask for understanding in those moments I said not yet but I intend to start today”

Through The Boughs: “Time was we thought we had time on our side. Time was, time was, those ragged birds cry.”

Gravy: “‘Don’t weep for me,’ he said to his friends. ‘I’m a lucky man. I’ve had ten years longer than I or anyone expected. Pure gravy. And don’t forget it.’”

No Need: “I’ve left the key in the same place. You know where. Remember me and all we did together.”

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.”

[Priya Sharma · Rating 4 out of 5]

I know nothing about poetry. I couldn't explain why a poem is "good" or "bad" to save my life. There were things in here that I loved though, which made me cry all the more when I went back and read the introduction and learnt of Carver's fate.

Late Fragment
And did you get what you 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.

[g]

Want to read this because of the coda, "Late Fragments" that was mentioned on HMH LiT Tumblr (http://hmhbooks.tumblr.com/post/72621...

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.

[lazarein · Rating 5 out of 5]

Took me quite a while longer than I expected to finish this—because life and responsibilities get in the way—but loved this, nonetheless. Love how Carver wove his sometimes-strange but always interesting, thought-provoking stories of this seemingly mundane world into poetry, giving off the same vibe his short fiction does. Super recommended for anyone looking for a quick read.

[Geoff · Rating 2 out of 5]

I love Carver's stories as much as anyone, but man do these poems stink. I've given the collection two stars because there is a compelling, touching quality in these heartfelt confessions, but they're really not at all good.

[Dan Siney · Rating 5 out of 5]

I'm incapable of explaining how much I love this book and this author.

[adam · Rating 5 out of 5]

“𝕁𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕙𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕕 𝕘𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕦𝕡 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕙𝕖’𝕕 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕡𝕠𝕖𝕥𝕣��, 𝕤𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕘𝕒𝕟 𝕓𝕣𝕦𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕣.”







𝓝𝓸 𝓝𝓮𝓮𝓭




“𝓘 𝓼𝓮𝓮 𝓪𝓷 𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓽𝔂 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮 𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓪𝓫𝓵𝓮. 𝓦𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮? 𝓦𝓱𝓸 𝓮𝓵𝓼𝓮’𝓼? 𝓦𝓱𝓸 𝓪𝓶 𝓘 𝓴𝓲𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰?

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓸𝓪𝓽’𝓼 𝔀𝓪𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰.
𝓝𝓸 𝓷𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓸𝓪𝓻𝓼 𝓸𝓻 𝓪 𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓭.

𝓘’𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓮𝓯𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓴𝓮𝔂 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓶𝓮 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮.
𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮.

𝓡𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓮𝓻 𝓶𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝔀𝓮 𝓭𝓲𝓭 𝓽𝓸𝓰𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻.

𝓝𝓸𝔀, 𝓱𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽. ��𝓱𝓪𝓽’𝓼 𝓲𝓽.

𝓚𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓭 𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓹𝓼. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮.

𝓝𝓸𝔀 𝓵𝓮𝓽 𝓶𝓮 𝓰𝓸, 𝓶𝔂 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽.

𝓛𝓮𝓽 𝓶𝓮 𝓰𝓸.

𝓦𝓮 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓮,

𝓼𝓸 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝓮 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓭𝓫𝔂𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝔀.

𝓗𝓮𝓻𝓮, 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝓮 𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷.

𝓞𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮.
𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓽’𝓼 𝓮𝓷𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱.

𝓝𝓸𝔀, 𝓶𝔂 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽, 𝓵𝓮𝓽 𝓶𝓮 𝓰𝓸.

𝓘𝓽’𝓼 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓫𝓮 𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝔂.”







𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘼𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙘


“𝐻𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝓉𝓉𝒾𝒸
𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓇𝑒𝒹
𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈.

𝐹𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈
𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝑜𝓅 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝒹 𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃
𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝓊𝓅
𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑜𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉.”







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.”



5/5

[Steven · Rating 4 out of 5]

Carver's final collection with some remarkable poems written as he faced death. A fifth of the poems (fourteen), are "found" poems from Chekhov stories. The significance of those poems comes to light in Tess Gallagher's introduction, with their placement meant to reflect on the themes in each section. My two favorites in the collection are probably "Miracle" and "Lemonade." Both of these also contain great stories. The end of life poems "Gravy" and "No Need" are destined for anthologies. Overall, this is probably my least favorite of his final three collections.

[MM · Rating 5 out of 5]

finished this small(-ish) stash in one sitting. a good porch sesh. never really familiar with RC’s poetry prior but, ya know, dabbled with the short stories of course. great book I picked up at a thrift for $2. relatable, wandering, life poems mixed with excerpts from RC’s favorite authors. what fucking fun! the intro by tess was almost better than the poems, basically had me in tears. but fuck it, the poems read really well. FFO: smoking 10000 cigarettes and a 12 pack of Pacifico at sun down.

[Diane B · Rating 4 out of 5]

Contemplating death and the meaning of life.

This collection is gathered from works written before Carver's death (50! from lung cancer). The Introduction by his wife, the poet Tess Gallagher, provides insight into how much Chekhov influenced his fiction. Both are masters of capturing life's poignant metaphors or those moments when everything could change.

Some of the poems are excerpts drawn and credited from translations of Chekhov's work, with keen appreciation. Other poems are moments of memoir, snug domesticity in strong counterpoint to the realities of illness.

---

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 thm
I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know
about any more being there than that
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
I said not yet but I intend to start today
he said I'm real sorry he said
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you
I said Amen and he said something else
I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do
and not wanting him to have to repeat it
and me to fully digest it
I just looked at him
for a minute and he looked back it was then
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

[Matt Maielli · Rating 5 out of 5]

"This man doesn't deserve poems and they shouldn't be given to him in any form. His poems, should he produce any more, ought to be eaten by mice."

[Beth Bauman · Rating 5 out of 5]

What a beautiful, end-of-life book of poems. I haven't read much of Raymond Carver's writing, but the way these poems give a glimpse into his and his wife's final years together was really beautiful, and disturbing, and sad, at times. I didn't love all the poems, but some of them were gold.

This book includes one of my favourite poems:

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.

I also loved this line from the introduction, a note which Raymond Carver scribbled down and his wife included after his death:
“Forgive me if I’m thrilled with the idea, but just now I thought that every poem I write ought to be
called ‘Happiness’.”

~ Elisabeth

[OctoToast · Rating 4 out of 5]

Favorite poems:
The Painter & The Fish
One More
Late Fragment