All of Us: The Collected Poems

ULTRAMARINE has 'The Pen', and the first line goes: “the pen that told the truth went into the washing machine for its trouble...”

As a fountain pen user, this statement gave me a great deal of pain. I could vividly imagine the beautiful pen, perhaps with its sleek body and smooth nib, being carelessly tossed into the washing machine.

But as a writer, I knew just which pen it was. It was that special pen that had been by my side through countless writing sessions, the one that seemed to have a life of its own. It was the pen that had helped me express my deepest thoughts and emotions, the pen that had told the truth in my words.

I could almost feel the pen's frustration and sadness as it was subjected to the harsh treatment of the washing machine. It was like a faithful friend being betrayed.

This simple line from the poem had触动了 my heart and made me reflect on the importance of our writing tools. They are not just objects, but extensions of ourselves,承载着 our creativity and our stories.

A lo largo de casi dos años, I have journeyed through the collected poetry of Raymond Carver. As I approach the end, when Carver realizes that he is going to die, his writing converges on the idea of living in the moment and transcending in our beloved ones. "Último Fragmento" is a poem that does justice to his entire body of work.

Reading collected poetry at a slow pace is a great experience. It allows you to walk through the lives of the authors, see how their style and life change, and how one does the same with them. Carver's autobiographical poetry says a lot in a little.

How much influence could Gordon Lish have had on his poetry? I don't know, but even in his early texts, Carver already showed promise. Many poems are short stories narrated with musicality. The consistency in both genres of his literature is noticeable.

I liked this book so much that when I closed it, I made a small prayer in gratitude to Carver for what he left us all.

Distress Sale
I reach for my wallet and that is how I understand it:
I can't help anyone.───

Morning, Thinking of Empire
I want to say to hell with the future.
Our future lies deep in the afternoon.
It is a narrow street with a cart and driver,
a driver who looks at us and hesitates,
then shakes his head.───

Commerce
To have come this far in a single night!
But then I never knew when to stop.───

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.───

Earwigs
For a minute I was so taken
aback I didn't know if I should kill them,
or what. Then rage seized me, and
I plastered them. Crushed the life from them
before any could get away. It was a massacre.
While I was at it, I found and destroyed
the other one utterly.
I was just beginning when it was all over.
I'm saying I could have gone on and on,
rending them. If it's true
that man is wolf to man, what can mere earwigs
expect when bloodlust is up?───

Soda Crackers
You soda crackers! I remember
when I arrived here in the rain,
whipped out and alone.
How we shared the aloneness
and quiet of this house.
And the doubt that held me
from fingers to toes
as I took you out
of your cellophane wrapping
and ate you, meditatively,
at the kitchen table
that first night with cheese,
and mushroom soup. Now,
a month later to the day,
an important part of us
is still here. I'm fine.
And you—I'm proud of you, too.
You're even getting remarked
on in print! Every soda cracker
should be so lucky.───