The Poetry of Raymond Carver Makes a Leap to E-Books

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Raymond Carver / Poems

Zapatos, 1886
Vincent van Gogh

POEMS

by Raymond Carver

BIOGRAPHY

They’ve come every day this month.
Once I said I wrote them because
I didn’t have time for anything
else. Meaning, of course, better
things – things other than mere
poems and verses. Now I’m writing
them because I want to.
More than anything because
this is February
when normally not much of anything
happens. But this month
the larches have blossomed,
and the sun has come out
every day. It’s true my lungs
have heated up like ovens.
And so what if some people
are waiting for other shoe
to drop, where I’m concerned.
Well, here it is then. Go ahead.
Put it on. I hope it fits
like a shoe.
Close enough, yes, but supple
so the foot has room to breathe
a little. Stand up. Walk
around. Feel it? It will go
where you’re going, and be there
with you at the end of your trip.
But for now, stay barefoot. Go
outside for a while, and play.

A New Path to the Waterfall, 1989.´

Raymond Carver / My Crow and other poems
Raymond Carver / Late Fragment
Raymond Carver / Happiness
Raymond Carver / All Her Life
Raymond Carver / Fear

Sunday, April 27, 2014

Raymond Carver / Fear

FEAR

By Raymond Carver
BIOGRAPHY

Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.

Fear of falling asleep at night.

Fear of not falling asleep.

Fear of the past rising up.

Fear of the present taking flight.

Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.

Fear of electrical storms.

Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!

Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite.

Fear of anxiety!

Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.

Fear of running out of money.

Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.

Fear of psychological profiles.

Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.

Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes.

Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty.

Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.

Fear of confusion.

Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.

Fear of waking up to find you gone.

Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.

Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.

Fear of death.

Fear of living too long.

Fear of death.

I've said that.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Raymond Carver / All Her Life

Raymond Carver in the summer of 1969
Photo by Gordon Lish

All Her Life

by Raymond Carver
BIOGRAPHY

I lay down for a nap. But everytime I closed my eyes,
mares' tails passed slowly over the Strait
toward Canada. And the waves. They rolled up on the beach
and then back again. You know I don’t dream.
But last night I dreamt we were watching
a burial at sea. At first I was astonished.
And then filled with regret. But you
touched my arm and said, "No, it's all right.
She was very old, and he'd loved her all her life."

Monday, July 25, 2011

Raymond Carver / Happiness

HAPPINESS

By Raymond Carver
BIOGRAPHY

So early it's still almost dark out.

I'm near the window with coffee,

and the usual early morning stuff

that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend

walking up the road

to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,

and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.

They are so happy

they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take

each other's arm.

It's early in the morning,

and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.

The sky is taking on light,

though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute

death and ambition, even love,

doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on

unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,

any early morning talk about it.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Raymond Carver / Your Dog Dies

Your Dog Dies

By Raymond Carver

BIOGRAPHY

 it gets run over by a van.
 
you find it at the side of the road 
and bury it.
 
you feel bad about it.
 
you feel bad personally, 
but you feel bad for your daughter 
because it was her pet, 
and she loved it so.
 
she used to croon to it 
and let it sleep in her bed.
 
you write a poem about it.
 
you call it a poem for your daughter, 
about the dog getting run over by a van 
and how you looked after it, 
took it out into the woods 
and buried it deep, deep, 
and that poem turns out so good 
you're almost glad the little dog 
was run over, or else you'd never 
have written that good poem.
 
then you sit down to write 
a poem about writing a poem 
about the death of that dog, 
but while you're writing you 
hear a woman scream 
your name, your first name, 
both syllables, 
and your heart stops.
 
after a minute, you continue writing.
 
she screams again.
 
you wonder how long this can go on.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Raymond Carver / My Crow and other poems

Raymond Carver

MY CROW AND OTHER POEMS

BIOGRAPHY

MI CUERVO Y OTROS POEMAS

MY CROW

A crow flew into the tree outside my window.
It was not Ted Hughes’s crow, or Galway’s crow.
Or Frost’s, Pasternak’s, or Lorca’s crow.
Or one of Homer’s crows, stuffed with gore,
after the battle. This was just a crow.
That never fit in anywhere in its life,
or did anything worth mentioning.
It sat there on the branch for a few minutes.
Then picked up and flew beautifully
out of my life.

BEGINNINGS

Once
there was a plumb-line
sunk deep into the floor
of a spruce valley
near Snohomish
in the Cascades
that passed under
Mt Rainier, Mt Hood,
and the Columbia River
and came up
somewhere
in the Oregon rainforest
wearing
a fern leaf.

SIMPLE

A break in the clouds. The blue
outline of the mountains.
Dark yellow of the fields.
Black river. What am I doing here,
lonely and filled with remorse?

I go on casually eating from the bowl
of raspberries. If I were dead,
I remind myself, I wouldn’t
be eating them. It’s not so simple.
It is that simple.

POEM FOR HEMINGWAY
& W. C. WILLIAMS

3 fat trout hang
in the still pool
below the new
steel bridge.
two friends
come slowly up
the track.
one of them,
ex-heavyweight,
wears an old
hunting cap.
he wants to kill,
that is catch & eat,
the fish.
the other,
medical man,
he knows the chances
of that.
he thinks it fine
that they should
simply hang there
always
in the clear water.
the two keep going
but they
discuss it as
they disappear
into the fading trees
& fields & light,
upstream.

ADULTERY

A matinee that Saturday
    afternoon Sound of Music
Your coat on the empty seat
            beside me
        your hand in my lap
we are transported
to Austria
There
somewhere along the Rhine
In any of these old
beautiful towns
we could live quietly
a hundred years
Later
you put on an apron
fix me a cup of tea with a slice of lemon
on Radio Monitor
Herb Alpert
and the Tijuana Brass
play Zorba the Greek
We also overhear
part of a conversation
with Dizzy Dean
On the floor
beside the bed Esquire
Frank Sinatra
surrounded by flaming cigarette lighters
Tacitus
Maxim Gorky
under the ashtray
Your head on my arm
we smoke cigarettes
and talk of lake Louise
Banff National Park
the Olympic
Peninsula
places
neither of us has seen
Outside
heat lightning
the first heavy drops of rain
strike the patio
Listen
How splendid these gifts

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.

THE YOUNG GIRLS

Forget all experiences involving wincing.
And anything to do with chamber music.
Museums on rainy Sunday afternoons, etcetera.
The old masters. All that.
Forget the young girls. Try and forget them.
The young girls. And all that.