11
" A Forge, and a Scythe"
One minute I had the windows open
and the sun was out. Warm breezes
blew through the room.
(I remarked on this in a letter.)
Then, while I watched, it grew dark.
The water began whitecapping.
All the sport-fishing boats turned
and headed in, a little fleet.
Those wind-chimes on the porch
blew down. The tops of our trees shook.
The stove pipe squeaked and rattled
around in its moorings.
I said, "A forge, and a scythe."
I talk to myself like this.
Saying the names of things --
capstan, hawser, loam, leaf, furnace.
Your face, your mouth, your shoulder
inconceivable to me now!
Where did they go? It's like
I dreamed them. The stones we brought
home from the beach lie face up
on the windowsill, cooling.
Come home. Do you hear?
My lungs are thick with the smoke
of your absence. "
― Raymond Carver , All of Us: The Collected Poems
13
" 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. "
― Raymond Carver , All of Us: The Collected Poems
14
" The Author of Her Misfortune"
I’m not the man she claims. But
this much is true: the past is
distant, a receding coastline,
and we’re all in the same boat,
a scrim of rain over the sea-lanes.
Still, I wish she wouldn’t keep on
saying those things about me!
Over the long course
everything but hope lets you go, then
even that loosens its grip.
There isn’t enough of anything
as long as we live. But at intervals
a sweetness appears and, given a chance,
prevails. It’s true I’m happy now.
And it’d be nice if she
could hold her tongue. Stop
hating me for being happy.
Blaming me for her life. I’m afraid
I’m mixed up in her mind
with someone else. A young man
of no character, living on dreams,
who swore he’d love her forever.
One who gave her a ring, and a bracelet.
Who said, Come with me. You can trust me.
Things to that effect. I’m not that man.
She has me confused, as I said,
with someone else. "
― Raymond Carver , All of Us: The Collected Poems
15
" Forever Drifting outside in a pall of smoke, I follow a snail’s streaked path down the garden to the garden’s stone wall. Alone at last I squat on my heels, see what needs to be done, and suddenly affix myself to the damp stone. I begin to look around me slowly and listen, employing my entire body as the snail employs its body, relaxed, but alert. Amazing! Tonight is a milestone in my life. After tonight how can I ever go back to that other life? I keep my eyes on the stars, wave to them with my feelers. I hold on for hours, just resting. Still later, grief begins to settle around my heart in tiny drops. I remember my father is dead, and I am going away from this town soon. Forever. Goodbye, son, my father says. Toward morning, I climb down and wander back into the house. They are still waiting, fright splashed on their faces, as they meet my new eyes for the first time. "
― Raymond Carver , All of Us: The Collected Poems
16
" This Word Love"
I will not go when she calls
even if she says I love you,
especially that,
even though she swears
and promises nothing
but love love.
The light in this room
covers every
thing equally;
even my arm throws no shadow,
it too is consumed with light.
But this word love —
this word grows dark, grows
heavy and shakes itself, begins
to eat, to shudder and convulse
its way through this paper
until we too have dimmed in
its transparent throat and still
are riven, are glistening, hip and thigh, your
loosened hair which knows
no hesitation. "
― Raymond Carver , All of Us: The Collected Poems
