#raymond carver
“Just when he had given up thinking / he’d ever write another line of poetry, / she began brushing her hair.”—Raymond Carver, from “The March into Russia,” A New Path to the Waterfall: Poems (The Atlantic Monthly Press, 1989)
Make use of the things around you.
This light rain
Outside the window, for one.
This cigarette between my fingers,
These feet on the couch.
The faint sound of rock-and-roll,
The red Ferrari in my head.
The woman bumping
Drunkenly around in the kitchen …
Put it all in,
Make use.”—Raymond Carver, from “Sunday Night,” in All of Us: The Collected Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 1998)
by Raymond Carver
Here is the poem I was going to write
earlier, but didn’t
because I heard you stirring.
I was thinking again
about that first morning in Zurich.
How we woke up before sunrise.
Disoriented for a minute. But going
out onto the balcony that looked down
over the river, and the old part of the city.
And simply standing there, speechless.
Nude. Watching the sky lighten.
So thrilled and happy. As if
we’d been put there
just at that moment.
by Raymond Carver
A storm blew in last night and knocked out
the electricity. When I looked
through the window, the trees were translucent.
Bent and covered with rime. A vast calm
lay over the countryside.
I knew better. But at that moment
I felt I’d never in my life made any
false promises, nor committed
so much as one indecent act. My thoughts
were virtuous. Later on that morning,
of course, electricity was restored.
The sun moved from behind the clouds,
melting the hoarfrost.
And things stood as they had before.
by Raymond Carver
A storm blew in last night and knocked out
the electricity. When I looked
through the window, the trees were translucent.
Bent and covered with rime. A vast calm
lay over the countryside.
I knew better. But at that moment
I felt I’d never in my life made any
false promises, nor committed
so much as one indecent act. My thoughts
were virtuous. Later on that morning,
of course, electricity was restored.
The sun moved from behind the clouds,
melting the hoarfrost.
And things stood as they had before.
Those silent moments spent with close people. Heard this in a movie and I found it really moving.
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okay what the fuckray
“Just when he had given up thinking / he’d ever write another line of poetry, / she began brushing her hair.”—Raymond Carver, from “The March into Russia,” A New Path to the Waterfall: Poems (The Atlantic Monthly Press, 1989)
