Raymond Carver

Taken from The Guardian

Taken from The Guardian

I’ve been reading through All of Us, the collected poems of Raymond Carver.   I triple dog dare you—man or woman—to read this, and tell me that you weren’t moved to tears, or inspired to change your life for the better.  He lived more in the last 10 years of his life than I’ve lived in my 31.  This book is comprised of the poems in four major collections of his poetry: Fires, Where Water Comes Together with Other Water, Ultramarine, and A New Path to the Waterfall, which he completed in the final weeks of his life.  That one was published posthumously.   Tess Gallagher, the love of his life, wrote the introduction to his final book, and that too is included as an appendix in All of Us.  That introduction, emotionally, is a difficult read, and leaves me amazed at how strong she had to be to write such intimate details about him so soon after his death.

    

A little biographical info: Raymond Carver had it ROUGH, but unlike so many, he managed to live a remarkably full and productive life before he died at the age of 50.  His father was an alcoholic, and so was he, until his final decade.  He got married when he was 19, and had 2 kids by the time he was 20.  He worked as a sawmill laborer, delivery man, janitor, and library assistant to support his family.  Somehow, at some point, he took a creative writing class which sparked further studies in writing.  All this time, he was a really heavy drinker.  Due to his alcoholism, doctors gave him just a few months to live.  When he was 39, he decided to stop, and a new phase began:  he met Tess Gallagher, and had such a rare and remarkable relationship with her.  There are a few poems that he dedicates to her, and they are astoundingly beautiful while also remaining entirely free of mush and sappiness and red roses.  In 1987, he was diagnosed with lung cancer, which reoccurred as a brain tumor the following year.  After a few weeks of full-brain radiation, they found out that tumors were found again in his lungs.  They knew his time was short, and so they dove into working on his final book, which they were able to finish just in time.  Superhuman effort. 

Carver’s writing:  I’ll keep this short.  I haven’t read all his short stories, but I can always remember details from anything I’ve read by him.  The booze and cigarettes come out a lot in his writing, and never in a glamorous, sexy way.  His love of nature also comes out in some poems.  Regarding his poetry, Tess Gallagher writes: “Ray did not regard his poetry as simply a hobby or pastime he turned to when he wanted a rest from fiction. Poetry was a spiritual necessity.”  In my experience, that sense of urgency gets transferred to the reader, and that’s a good thing.  All I can say is that after reading most of the collection from beginning to end, I thought, “Gee, I really have to [insert life changing decision] ASAP.”

 And finally, 5 poems by Raymond Carver:

Afterglow

The dusk of evening comes on. Earlier a little rain
had fallen. You open a drawer and find inside
the man’s photograph, knowing he has only two years
to live. He doesn’t know this, of course,
that’s why he can mug for the camera.
How could he know what’s taking root in his head
at that moment? If one looks to the right
through boughs and tree trunks, there can be seen
crimson patches of the afterglow. Now shadows, no
half-shadows. It is still and damp….
The man goes on mugging. I put the picture back
in its place along with the others and give
my attention instead to the afterglow along the far ridge,
light golden on the roses in the garden.
Then, I can’t help myself, I glance once more
at the picture. The wink, the broad smile,
the jaunty slant of the cigarette.

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.”

For Tess

Out on the Strait the water is whitecapping,
as they say here. It’s rough, and I’m glad
I’m not out. Glad I fished all day
on Morse Creek, casting a red Daredevil back
and forth. I didn’t catch anything. No bites
even, not one. But it was ok. It was fine!
I carried your dad’s pocketknife and was followed
for a while by a dog its owner called Dixie.
At times I felt so happy I had to quit
fishing. Once I lay on the bank with my eyes closed,
listening to the sound the water made,
and to the wind in the tops of the trees. The same wind
that blows out on the Strait, but a different wind, too.
For a while I even let myself imagine I had died—
and that was all right, at least for a couple
of minutes, until it really sank in: Dead.
As I was lying there with my eyes closed,
just after I’d imagined what it might be like
if in fact I never got up again, I thought of you.
I opened my eyes then and got right up
and went back to being happy again.
I’m grateful to you, you see. I wanted to tell you.

Rain

Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.

Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.

Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

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.