Sunday Poet: Raymond Carver

Few people think of Raymond Carver as a poet. He is well-known in some circles as one of the best artists of the slice-of-life short fiction format. I suspect he had more in him, but he died too young for us to ever know if we would have been a great novelist or a master poet.

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 Cobweb

A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the deck
of the house. From there I could see and hear the water,
and everything that's happened to me all these years.
It was hot and still. The tide was out.
No birds sang. As I leaned against the railing
a cobweb touched my forehead.
It caught in my hair. No one can blame me that I turned
and went inside. There was no wind. The sea
was dead calm. I hung the cobweb from the lampshade.
Where I watch it shudder now and then when my breath
touches it. A fine thread. Intricate.
Before long, before anyone realizes,
I'll be gone from here.

*****

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.

Here is some biographical information on Carver from the Famous Poets and Poems page:

Raymond Carver (May 25, 1938 - August 2, 1988) was an American short story writer and poet.

Carver was born in Clatskanie, Oregon. For a time, Carver studied under the author John Gardner at Chico State College in Chico, California. He published a number of short stories over his lifetime that describe blue collar life in a number of periodicals, including The New Yorker and Esquire, which were later collected into books.

Carver was the husband of poet Tess Gallagher. He was a close friend of Tobias Wolff and Richard Ford. In 1988, he was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

Carver's writings are often associated with minimalism. His editor at Esquire, Gordon Lish , was instrumental in shaping Carver's prose. For example, where Gardner had advised Carver to use 15 words instead of 25, Lish instructed Carver to use 5 in place of 15. During this time, Carver also submitted poetry to James Dickey, then poetry editor of Esquire.

Carver died in Port Angeles, Washington from lung cancer, at the age of 50.

There is not much written about Carver as a poet, but many of the same themes and styles that are found in his fiction are to be found in his poetry. Here are a few words from the Carver Wikipedia entry on his style:

Carver's writing style and themes are often identified with Ernest Hemingway, Anton Chekhov, and Franz Kafka. Carver also referred to Isaac Babel, Frank O'Connor, and V. S. Pritchett as influences. Chekhov, however, seems the greatest influence, motivating him to write Errand, one of his final stories, about the Russian writer's final hours.

Minimalism is generally seen as one of the hallmarks of Carver's work. His editor at Esquire magazine, Gordon Lish, was instrumental in shaping Carver's prose in this direction - where his earlier tutor John Gardner had advised Carver to use fifteen words instead of twenty-five, Lish instructed Carver to use five in place of fifteen. During this time, Carver also submitted poetry to James Dickey, then poetry editor of Esquire. His style has also been described as Dirty realism, referring to a group of writers in the 1970s and 1980s that included Richard Ford, Tobias Wolff - two writers Carver was closely acquainted with - Ann Beattie, and Jayne Anne Philips. These were writers who focused on the sadnesses and losses of the everyday lives of ordinary people--often lower-middle class or isolated and marginalized people who represent Henry David Thoreau's idea of living lives of "quiet desperation."

I think that one of things some people miss when looking at Carver's "dirty realism" is the need to find meaning behind the mundane and painful details of ordinary lives. This tends to show through more in the poetry than in the fiction, which is one of the things that draws me to his work -- the other main thing is the simplicity of style.

Here are a couple of more poems:

Happiness

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.

*****

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.
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.

Raymond Carver on the web:
Famous Poets and Poems
Wikipedia entry -- lots of good links
Raymond Carver website

Tags: Raymond Carver, poetry, poet, poems