Had to read it from back to front, because the beginning is too harrowing, except, of course, Highway 99E from Chico. I always wondered why he probably misidentified the sycamores as maples. Then I realized he was as itinerant as me.

Such Diamonds

It was a glorious morning. The sun was shining brightly and cleaving with its rays the layers of white snow still lingering here and there. The snow, as it too left the earth, glittered with such diamonds that it hurt the eyes to look, while the young winter corn was hastily thrusting up its green beside it. The rooks floated with dignity over the fields. A rook would fly, drop to earth, and give several hops before standing firmly on its feet.

-- Anton Chekhov

"A Nightmare"

p. 287

I guess I'm good with Carver pointing me again towards Chekhov's travels to Sakhalin Island. You might surely want to read Chekhov's great book.

This passage seems to describe a scene that is both beautiful and a bit mysterious. The way the snow glitters like diamonds is a vivid and enchanting image. It makes me wonder what else Chekhov saw and experienced during his travels. Maybe he encountered many such breathtaking moments that inspired his writing.

The mention of the misidentified sycamores and the itinerant nature of the narrator and the other person adds an element of confusion and similarity. It makes me think about how we often misinterpret things or find common ground with unexpected people.

Overall, this passage leaves me with a sense of curiosity and a desire to explore more of Chekhov's works and his travels to Sakhalin Island. It makes me believe that there are many more wonderful stories and insights waiting to be discovered.

Acknowledgments

Preface

Introduction


FIRES (1983)

WHERE WATER COMES TOGETHER WITH OTHER WATER (1985)

ULTRAMARINE (1986)

A NEW PATH TO THE WATERFALL (1989)

APPENDIXES: Including Uncollected Poems


Three of my faves are presented below. There were actually many wonderful works!



STILL LOOKING OUT FOR NUMBER ONE


Now that you've been away for five days, I can freely smoke all the cigarettes I desire, wherever I please. I can make biscuits and enjoy them with jam and fatty bacon. I can loaf around and indulge myself. If I feel like it, I can take a walk on the beach. And I do feel like it, being alone and reminiscing about my youth. The people who loved me without any rational explanation back then. And how I loved them more than anyone else. Except for one. I'm stating that I'll do everything I want here while you're away! But there's one thing I won't do. I won't sleep in our bed without you. No. It doesn't give me pleasure to do so. I'll sleep wherever I damn well feel like it — where I sleep best when you're away and I can't hold you the way I usually do. On the broken sofa in my study.



AN AFTERNOON


As he writes, not looking at the sea, he senses the tip of his pen starting to tremble. The tide is receding across the shingle. But it's not because of that. No, it's because at that very moment, she decides to walk into the room completely naked. Drowsy, not even sure where she is for a moment. She brushes the hair away from her forehead. She sits on the toilet with her eyes closed, her head bowed down. Her legs are sprawled out. He catches a glimpse of her through the doorway. Maybe she's回忆ing what occurred that morning. For after a while, she opens one eye and looks at him. And smiles sweetly.



THE BEST TIME OF THE DAY


Cool summer nights. Windows are open. Lamps are burning. There's fruit in the bowl. And your head is resting on my shoulder. These are the happiest moments of the day. Next to the early morning hours, of course. And the time just before lunch. And the afternoon, and the early evening hours. But I truly love these summer nights. Even more, I think, than those other times. The work for the day is done. And now, no one can reach us. Or ever will.

Pretty much unnoticed masterpiece.

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His style is like a softer, more subtle, and more long-winded Bukowski.

It was okay or decent. However, in general, I would recommend his short stories over his poems. And I would also suggest finding and reading specific poems (online) rather than reading a super long collection like this one.

Some of the poems that are worth reading include: "You Don't Know What Love Is (an evening with Charles Bukowski)", "Your Dog Dies", and "Drinking While Driving".

These poems have their own unique charm and can provide a different kind of reading experience.

By focusing on specific poems, you can get a better sense of the author's talent and creativity without being overwhelmed by a large volume of work.

Overall, while his poems may not be everyone's cup of tea, there are still some gems to be found if you take the time to look.

Your Dog Dies
You Don't Know What Love Is (an evening with Charles Bukowski)
The Mailman as Cancer Patient
The Ashtray
Still Looking Out for Number One
Next Year
Energy
Locking Yourself Out, Then Trying to Get Back In
My Boat
Plus
Reading Something in the Restaurant
The Author of Her Misfortune
The Possible
An Account

Waiting
Left off the highway and
down the hill. At the
bottom, hang another left.
Keep bearing left. The road
will make a Y. Left again.
There's a creek on the left.
Keep going. Just before
the road ends, there'll be
another road. Take it
and no other. Otherwise,
your life will be ruined
forever. There's a log house
with a shake roof, on the left.
It's not that house. It's
the next house, just over
a rise. The house
where trees are laden with
fruit. Where phlox, forsythia,
and marigold grow. It's
the house where the woman
stands in the doorway
wearing sun in her hair. The one
who's been waiting
all this time.
The woman who loves you.
The one who can say,
"What's kept you?"

The Debate
Some Prose on Poetry
What the Doctor Said
The Man Outside

This collection of short pieces offers a diverse range of themes and perspectives. From the emotional impact of a dog's death to the exploration of love and waiting, each segment presents a unique snapshot of life. The vivid descriptions of the journey to a particular house create a sense of anticipation and mystery. The woman waiting at the door adds a touch of warmth and longing. The inclusion of other topics like the debate, prose on poetry, and what the doctor said further enriches the collection, covering various aspects of human experience. Overall, it provides a thought-provoking and engaging read that invites the reader to reflect on their own lives and emotions.

Ahora mi entorno me da incontables referencias a la poesía de Carver. En cada rincón, en cada momento del día a día, encuentro historias que se cuentan desde una sensibilidad y humildad tremenda. Son historias que reflejan la vida real, con sus alegrías y sus dolores, sus esperanzas y sus decepciones.

Me encanta la humanidad de este libro. Carver tiene la capacidad de captar los detalles más pequeños de la vida y transformarlos en obras de arte. Sus poemas son como ventanas a un mundo que a veces es brutal, pero siempre es lleno de amor y de compasión. Me hace reflexionar sobre mi propia vida y me ayuda a apreciar los momentos pequeños que a veces pasan inadvertidos.

En definitiva, la poesía de Carver ha tenido un impacto profundo en mí. Me ha enseñado a ver el mundo desde una perspectiva diferente y me ha dado una mayor apreciación por la belleza y la complejidad de la vida humana.

Raymond Carver's writing is truly remarkable. It is all so concise, presenting the essence of life with just a few words. At the same time, it is so real that it feels as if he is laying bare his own soul on the page. And it is also highly relatable, making readers feel that they are not alone in their experiences.

I am just now embarking on the journey of exploring his extensive body of work, and I can't help but wish that I had discovered him earlier. He is like an imperfect man who manages to pen perfect poetry. He delves deep into every aspect of human emotion, leaving no stone unturned and no feeling unexplored.

Reading Carver is a bit like reading Hawthorne in high school. Sometimes, you need a certain amount of life experience to fully understand and appreciate the complex emotions of grief, guilt, joy, love, sorrow, passion, and loneliness that are so vividly portrayed in his writing. It is only with the passage of time and the accumulation of personal experiences that we can truly connect with the depth and beauty of his words.

'Happiness' by Raymond Carver is truly one of my all-time favourite poems.

It has such a profound impact on me that I decided to explore more of his works.

After reading some, I found that I liked them, yet not to the extent I initially expected.

However, I did come across two other poems that have now found their way into my favourites book, namely 'This Morning' and 'At Least'.

In certain aspects, Carver's poetry bears a resemblance to that of Charles Bukowski.

Carver's approach is much more gentle and clean, yet each of his poems tells a story, like a brilliant snapshot.

It's as if he has the ability to capture a moment in time and paint it vividly with his words.

His poetry has a unique charm that keeps drawing me in, and I look forward to uncovering more of his literary treasures.

Like many volumes of collected poems, this book was long, and I found myself enjoying it more and more as I delved deeper. Carver, renowned for his short stories and often compared to Chekhov, also favored a strong narrative voice in his poetry, laying himself bare on the page. I greatly admire how he accepts responsibility. The recurring theme of “This is how it went down, I admit it was my own damn fault” shows his matter-of-fact attitude, never maudlin.

Carver’s early adult life was in turmoil. He had a teen marriage, his first baby before college, and struggled to support his growing family while succumbing to alcoholism and chain smoking. Tragically, he died of lung cancer at 50, just when he seemed to be racing against the clock of missed opportunities.

These poems were published from 1983 to 1988, the year of his death, with uncollected poems added at the end. Knowing as I read that his death was approaching added a poignant touch to the later poems, especially since he was finally enjoying a happy married life with poet Tess Gallagher and writing prolifically. I love the simple language without added drama in “What the Doctor Said.”

“He said it doesn’t look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them”

We all have those moments of disaster when time seems to almost stop, and we watch ourselves within a scene without fully being there. He ends

“I jumped up and shook hands with this man who’d just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may even have thanked him habit being so strong”

Most of Carver’s poems use standard punctuation, but the absence of periods and commas in this poem intensifies the feeling that the scene in the doctor’s office was spiraling out of control. It’s hard to catch our own breaths while reading it.

The most gut-wrenching poems are those about himself, his parents, first wife, and children, all set on self-destruction. In “To My Daughter,” he writes

“You’re a beautiful, drunk daughter.
But you’re a drunk. I can’t say you’re breaking
my heart. I don’t have a heart when it comes
to this booze thing.”

and ends

“Daughter, you can’t drink.
It will kill you. Like it did your mother, and me.
Like it did.”

I actually preferred his darker poems for their unwavering honesty, but variety is indeed good. Just as his life brightened through sobriety and love, the poems also lighten up. There are moments of whimsy and humor, romance, and many nature poems. Carver loved to fish.

While most people would despair at learning they were going to die at 50, Carver views it differently in “Gravy.”

“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. So he changed his ways
somehow. He quit drinking! And the rest?
After that it was all gravy, every minute
of it….”

What a beautiful love poem this is. Yet my favorite piece in this book wasn’t a poem but “Some Prose on Poetry,” a three-page personal essay about a chance encounter that led him to poetry. “…nothing can explain…such a moment: the moment when the very thing I needed most in my life –call it a polestar – was casually, generously given to me.”

A gorgeous and moving collection of poems has been a great source of comfort to me lately. It's truly a remarkable discovery. Raymond Carver, the author, had a unique way of looking at life and emotion. He approached them with a kind of matter-of-fact attitude that is both refreshing and helpful. His poems, such as "Simple," "Hummingbird," or even the shorter "Fragments," are just beautiful. They have a simplicity and elegance that draw you in and make you think. Each word seems to be carefully chosen to convey a deep and profound meaning. Reading these poems is like taking a journey through Carver's mind and experiencing his emotions along with him. It's a wonderful and enriching experience that I would highly recommend to anyone.

Raymond Carver's poetry is characterized by a great deal of realism. It often has a rural setting, with frequent mentions of nature, especially fishing (which also occurs in his short stories). His works are deeply rooted in the American culture of the second half of the 20th century.

Carver makes numerous references to other writers and is obsessed with Chekhov. He also writes for and about Machado and Lorca, which is quite surprising considering he is an American. His poetry is like snapshots,描绘着小人物、小地方和生活中的瞬间。

Carver himself is a prominent figure in his poetry. His language is concise, ordinary yet poetic and philosophical. Themes such as alcoholism, a touch of pessimism, family, remorse, and the passage of time are often explored. There is a great deal of honesty in his works.

The last six poems are particularly beloved. Overall, Carver is a favorite among many.

"The Attic" is a prime example of his work. It describes the mind as an attic where things are stored for years. Occasionally, a face appears in the small window of the roof, like that of a sad person who has been locked up and forgotten.

Some translations may not do justice to the original, but in English, the beauty of Carver's poetry truly shines through.

Tomorrow

Cigarette smoke lingers in the living room, as if reluctant to leave. The ship's lights on the water are dimming, gradually losing their shine. Meanwhile, the stars in the sky seem to be burning holes, transforming into ash. Yes, that's their fate. But it's all right, for those lights we call stars are supposed to burn for a time and then die.

I, on the other hand, am hell-bent on wishing it were tomorrow already. I remember my dear mother, God love her, saying, "Don't wish for tomorrow. You're wishing your life away." Nevertheless, I still wish for tomorrow, with all its finery. I long for sleep to come and go smoothly, like passing out of the door of one car into another. And then, to wake up and find tomorrow right there in my bedroom.

I'm more tired now than words can express. My bowl is empty, but it's my bowl, you see, and I love it. Despite my weariness and the emptiness, I hold onto the hope that tomorrow will bring something new and wonderful.