Sometimes reading an entire collection of poems from cover to cover can be an exhausting and perhaps even unadvisable task. In fact, I often read poetry collections on the side while reading fiction (or non-fiction) because it demands such intense focus.

You know that feeling. Especially when faced with poems that seem to sprawl over a page or two. You're reading along, and suddenly you realize your mind has wandered, much like a novice meditation student testing the waters of Buddhism. You go back, remind yourself to focus on the words, start over, take a deep breath, and continue.

With Raymond Carver, this is less of an issue. One reason is his unique style. It is highly idiomatic, often written in a friendly vernacular. Deceptively simple as well. He can be considered a Hemingway of poetry. Before long, due to the recurring themes that wash over you in waves (similar to Bach's music), you start to feel as if old Ray is your buddy, your best pal, someone you can truly relate to.

And, hey, I can write like this too! Look how simple it seems! Just as Hemingway inspires legions of aspiring short story writers who end up crashing against the rocky shores of imitation, so does Carver with poetry imitators. Beware the Scylla and Charybdis of deceptively simple writing.

If, like me, you're not comfortable with narrative poetry and are more drawn to the one-note charm of lyrical poetry, Carver is the perfect antidote. He is better known for his short stories than his poetry, but many of his poems share the same strengths - the ability to select a few crucial details from his own life or someone else's, quickly construct a story, and deftly uncover an emotion or a small nugget of truth within it.

Many of his poems focus on the simple things that make life worth living, as well as on death. This is both ironic and not. On one hand, death is a common theme in most writers' works since the dawn of time. Where do we go? And why me? The special old me? The other irony is Carver's own untimely death from cancer at the age of 50. His last poems are written through the lens of this darkness.

This particular collection contains every poem Raymond Carver ever wrote. In the back, there are appendices, with the first one featuring his early, unpublished poems. I read these first and then went back to read in the order of his four published collections to witness his growth as a poet. He is an end-stop guy. When he uses enjambment, he knows how to handle it, so to speak. There are lots of dependent clauses followed by periods. If you're a stickler for complete sentences in poetry and grammar violations bother you, enter at your own risk.

Here are some sample works that I like:

"Bobber"
On the Columbia River near Vantage,
Washington, we fished for whitefish
in the winter months; my dad, Swede-
Mr. Lindgren - and me. They used belly-reels,
pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown
flies baited with maggots.
They wanted distance and went clear out there
to the edge of the riffle.
I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole.

My dad kept his maggots alive and warm
under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink.
I liked him better than my dad for a time.
He let me steer his car, teased me
about my name "Junior," and said
one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember
all this, and fish with my own son.
But my dad was right. I mean
he kept silent and looked into the river,
worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.

"This Morning"
This morning was something. A little snow
lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear
blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green,
as far as the eye could see.
Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went
for a walk - determined not to return
until I took in what Nature had to offer.
I passed close to some old, bent-over trees.
Crossed a field strewn with rocks
where snow had drifted. Kept going
until I reached the bluff.

Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and
the gulls wheeling over the white beach
far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure
cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts
began to wander. I had to will
myself to see what I was seeing
and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what
mattered, not the other. (And I did see it,
for a minute or two!) For a minute or two
it crowded out the usual musings on
what was right, and what was wrong - duty,
tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat
with my former wife. All the things
I hoped would go away this morning.
The stuff I live with every day. What
I've trampled on in order to stay alive.

But for a minute or two I did forget
myself and everything else. I know I did.
For when I turned back I didn't know
where I was. Until some birds rose up
from the gnarled trees. And flew
in the direction I needed to be going.

"My Dad's Wallet"
Long before he thought of his own death,
my dad said he wanted to lie close
to his parents. He missed them so
after they went away.
He said this enough that my mother remembered,
and I remembered. But when the breath
left his lungs and all signs of life
had faded, he found himself in a town
512 miles away from where he wanted most to be.

My dad, though. He was restless
even in death. Even in death
he had this one last trip to take.
All his life he liked to wander,
and now he had one more place to get to.
The undertaker said he’d arrange it,
not to worry. Some poor light
from the window fell on the dusty floor
where we waited that afternoon
until the man came out of the back room
and peeled off his rubber gloves.

He carried the smell of formaldehyde with him.
He was a big man, the undertaker said.
Then began to tell us why
he liked living in this small town.
This man who’d just opened up my dad’s veins.
How much is it going to cost? I said.
He took out his pad and pen and began
to write. First, the preparation charges.
Then he figured the transportation
of the remains at 22 cents a mile.

But this was a round-trip for the undertaker,
don’t forget. Plus, say, six meals
and two nights in a motel. He figured
some more. Add a surcharge of
$210 for his time and trouble,
and there you have it.
He thought we might argue.
There was a spot of color on
each of his cheeks as he looked up
from his figures. The same poor light
fell in the same poor place on
the dusty floor. My mother nodded
as if she understood. But she
hadn’t understood a word of it.

None of it made any sense to her,
beginning with the time she left home
with my dad. She only knew
that whatever was happening
was going to take money.
She reached into her purse and bought up
my dad’s wallet. The three of us
in that little room that afternoon.
Our breath coming and going.
We stared at the wallet for a minute.
Nobody said anything.
All the life had gone out of the wallet.
It was old and rent and soiled.

But it was my dad’s wallet. And she opened
it and looked inside. Drew out
a handful of money that would go
toward this last, most astounding, trip.

The best compliment I can give a book is to say that I won't pass it on to a like-minded friend. When I become a little selfish about a book, when I make a permanent space for it on the bookshelf, much like a star on Hollywood Boulevard, so that I can return to it for inspiration, ideas, and to unpack its depths, it earns a five-plus rating. I realize he's not everyone's cup of tea. He's not into rhyme, meter, or any form of formal poetry. But that's a reflection of me too. Those things don't appeal to me much.

As Mark Twain said of classics, so I say of poetry: I prefer water to fine wine. And if that says something about me, so be it!

I didn't realize that this particular work had 5 collections within it. So, unfortunately, I only managed to read the first two before my Libby loan expired. Lol.

Just like his short stories, a distinct thread of senselessness weaves its way through Carver's poetry. There is a profound melancholy that pervades, yet it has a strange sort of peacefulness in its omnipresence.

Carver possesses a remarkable talent for infusing the most ordinary and mundane aspects of life with great depth of thought and emotion. When reading his poetry, I have this uncanny feeling as if I am surreptitiously peeking through a window directly into his soul. I am able to witness, in slow motion, the various movements and nuances of his life.

It's truly a captivating experience, one that makes me eager to explore more of his works and gain a deeper understanding of the man behind the words.

Despite the limitations of my Libby loan, the little I have read has left a lasting impression on me, and I look forward to the opportunity to read the remaining collections in the future.

TORTURA

Once again, you are falling in love. This time, it's with the daughter of a South American general. You seem to enjoy being stretched on the rack again. You like to hear terrible things and admit that they are true. You want unnamed acts to be committed against your person, things that decent people don't talk about at school. You want to tell everything you know about Simon Bolivar, Jorge Luis Borges, and especially about yourself. You want to involve everyone in this affair! Even at four in the morning and the lights are still on - those lights that have been on day and night for two weeks in your eyes and in your brain - and you're dying for a cigarette and a lemonade, but she won't, that woman with the green eyes and that certain something won't turn off the lights. Even then, you'll want to be her gaucho. Dance with me, you imagine hearing her say as you try to pick up the empty water jug. Dance with me, she says again, there's no doubt. Take this moment to ask yourself, hombre, to get up and dance naked with her. No, you don't have the strength of a fallen leaf, nor the strength of a small wicker basket beaten by the waves of Lake Titicaca. But you jump out of bed anyway, amigo, and dance in large open spaces.

Sigo creyendo que un libro de poesía nunca se termina de leer. Llevo dos meses hojeando este texto tan completo. Es un Carver que siente un pulso frenético por lo que lo rodea, revelando el valor de las vidas normales. Cada verso es como una pequeña joya que me ha cautivado y hecho reflexionar. Pero ahora debo devolverlo a la librería Alberto Lista que visito a diario.

He ganado mucho perdido en estos versos debido al insomnio que arrastro. Han sido un consuelo en las noches más oscuras, dándome una ligera esperanza por el futuro. Al entender el valor del presente a través de sus palabras, he podido apreciar mejor las cosas que me rodean. Gracias Raymond, quería decírtelo.

Este libro de poesía ha sido una experiencia única, y aunque lo debo devolver, sabré que siempre podré volver a él en mi mente y seguir disfrutando de sus maravillas.

Cariño, por favor, mándame el bloc de notas que dejé en la mesita. Si no está, mira debajo. O debajo de la cama. Está por ahí. Si no es un bloc, unas líneas garabateadas en trozos de papel. Pero seguro que están por ahí. Tiene que ver con lo que nos contó una vez nuestra amiga la doctora Ruth sobre aquella anciana de ochenta y pico años.

«Sucia y endurecida por la mugre», son sus palabras, tan poco preocupada por sí misma que la ropa se le había pegado al cuerpo y tuvieron que arrancársela en la sala de urgencias. «Estoy tan avergonzada. Lo siento», decía sin parar. El olor de la ropa irritó los ojos de Ruth. Las uñas de la anciana habían crecido tanto que ya se curvaban hacia los dedos. Le costaba respirar, sus ojos solo expresaban miedo. Pero, así y todo, fue capaz de contarle a Ruth su historia.

Había debutado en la Madison Avenue, pero su padre la repudió cuando bailó en París en el Folies Bergère. Luego sufrió un ataque al corazón y se murió en los brazos de Ruth. Pero quisiera ver qué más anoté de lo que nos contó. Quiero ver si es posible recrear esa época de hace sesenta años en la que aquella joven desembarcaba en Le Havre, hermosa, decidida, dispuesta a triunfar en el escenario del Folies Bergère, capaz de echar la cabeza hacia atrás y de saltar a la vez, llevar plumas y medias de malla, y bailar y bailar, los brazos entrelazados con los de las otras jóvenes del Folies Bergère, levantando la pierna en el Folies Bergère.

Puede que sea un bloc de tapas azules, el que me regalaste a la vuelta de Brasil. Puedo ver mi letra junto al nombre del caballo ganador en el hipódromo que había junto al hotel: Lord Byron. Pero me importa esa mujer, no la suciedad, eso no me importa, ni siquiera cuando pesaba casi 150 kilos. A la memoria no le importa dónde habita y se burla del cuerpo. «Una vez aprendí algo sobre la identidad», dijo Ruth, recordando sus años de prácticas. «Todos nosotros, jóvenes estudiantes de medicina, boquiabiertos ante las manos de un cadáver. Ahí es donde la humanidad pervive más tiempo, en las manos.» Las manos de esa mujer. Anoté algo en ese momento, como si la estuviera viendo con las manos pegadas a las esbeltas caderas, las mismas manos que Ruth tuvo entre las suyas y no olvida.

These poems present Carver in his most concentrated form: Carver the drinker, and Carver in the process of recovery. He was a reader, especially of Chekhov, an outdoorsman, a worker, a dedicated husband, a cigarette-smelling loser who picked up barmaids, a fighter, a big softie, and the man who knew Haruki Murakami before anyone else in America, and so much more. Although he may not have had extraordinary poetic ability, he made up for it with his sincere heart. And although there isn't a great deal of technical brilliance, there is a sense that these poems are like tiny fragments of short stories, all told with a deeply empathetic voice.

Like many of his contemporaries in American literature at that time, he was once a typical, self-destructive, blustering, alcoholic "cursed poet." However, unlike many of his colleagues, he finally managed to establish connections. The luxurious lifestyle eventually took its toll on R.C., but he overcame his demons. "All of Us" shows his journey from start to finish.

A lot of this stuff is just clear optimism.

It's quite evident that Carver had a strong inclination towards writing poetry throughout the day rather than focusing on fiction.

Moreover, an interesting discovery emerged while I was reading this. To my surprise, we share the same birthday!

This coincidence added an extra layer of intrigue to my reading experience.

It makes me wonder if there are any other hidden connections or similarities between us.

Perhaps this shared birthday is a sign of a deeper understanding or affinity for Carver's work.

As I continue to explore his writings, I look forward to uncovering more of these fascinating details and insights.

Who knows what other surprises await me as I delve further into the world of Carver's literature?

Alfaguara has released a bilingual version.

Probably the only problem with this magnificent bilingual book (which uses the beautiful British cover) is that the original text of each poem by Carver is in the footnotes and not on the page opposite the Spanish version.

What can be said about Carver? Only that the enormity of his stories overshadows the very good poet within him.

This bilingual edition offers a unique opportunity for readers to explore Carver's work in both English and Spanish. However, the placement of the original text in the footnotes may cause some inconvenience for those who wish to easily compare the two versions.

Despite this minor drawback, the book is a valuable addition to any literature lover's collection. It allows for a deeper understanding and appreciation of Carver's writing, as well as an opportunity to expand one's language skills.

Whether you are a fan of Carver's short stories or interested in exploring his poetry, this bilingual version is definitely worth checking out.

Carver as a poet presents a rather complex picture.

Some of his short narratives are truly excellent, and the poems that deal with his alcoholism are refreshingly straightforward and authentic.

However, I found myself having difficulties with approximately half of the poems when evaluated as pure poetry.

The question then arises: Is compression the sole criterion for a piece to be considered a poem in the post-1970 era?

This is precisely where the criticism of contemporary poetry being mere cut-up prose comes into play.

About half of the poems could be dismissively labeled by Harold Bloom as "very sincere."

Thankfully, the book as a whole is salvaged by some of the finer poems within it.

I have a particular affection for "What the Doctor Said."

It showcases Carver's ability to craft a powerful and moving piece that stands out among the others.

Despite the flaws in some of the poems, Carver's work still holds value and offers insights into his unique perspective and experiences.

I haven't read Carver's short stories yet and I don't remember why, instead of those, I chose to buy the complete collection of his poems.

Carver's poems don't seem like proper poems. They rather look like micro-stories where there are often line breaks (poetry in prose, poetic prose? who knows!), but they are fresh, simple, and disarming.

Company
This morning I woke up with the rain
beating on the windows. And I realized
that for a long time now,
standing in front of a fork in the road,
I have chosen the worse path. Or perhaps,
simply, the easier one.
Compared to the virtuous one. Or the more difficult one.
These thoughts come to me
when I'm alone on days like this.
Like now. Hours passed
in the company of the fool that I am.
Hours and hours
that are so much like a narrow room.
With just a strip of carpet to walk on.

The simplicity, the immediacy, the ability to be amazed (and touched, and questioned, and moved, and hurt) by all circumstances – good or bad; these things characterize Carver's non-poems. No Pindaric flight, no escape into the imagination, only the astonishment, the wonder of the present.

The Gift
You tell me that you didn't sleep well. I confess
that neither did I. You had a bad night. “Me too.”
We are extraordinarily calm and gentle with each other
as if we sense our unsteady mental state.
As if each one knows what the other is feeling. Although,
naturally, we don't know. One never knows. It doesn't matter.
It's the tenderness that weighs on me. It's this gift
that moves me and takes hold of me this morning.
Like every morning.

I don't know why I bought the collection of poems instead of the short stories, but it wasn't a mistake to do so.

This is an outstanding collection. I really struggled to pick a favorite.

The Best Time of The Day -

Cool summer nights are truly wonderful. With the windows wide open, the gentle breeze can freely flow in. The lamps are burning, casting a warm glow. There is delicious fruit in the bowl, adding a touch of freshness. And having your head on my shoulder makes these moments even more special. These are the happiest instants in the day.

Next to the early morning hours, of course. And the time just before lunch. The afternoon and early evening hours are also nice. But I have a particular affection for these summer nights. I think I love them even more than those other times.

The work for the day is finished, and now no one can reach us. Or ever will.

Grief -

I woke up early this morning and from my bed, I looked far across the Strait. I saw a small boat moving through the choppy water, with a single running light on. It made me remember my friend who used to shout his dead wife's name from the hilltops around Perugia. He would set a plate for her at his simple table long after she was gone. And he opened the windows so she could have fresh air. Such a display I found embarrassing at that time. So did his other friends. I couldn't understand it. Not until this morning.

Thank you, Mr. Carver.

Your contributions have had a profound impact on our lives. You have shown us the importance of hard work, determination, and innovation.

Your work in the field of agriculture has not only improved the lives of countless farmers but also contributed to the growth and development of our society.

Your inventions and discoveries have opened up new possibilities and opportunities for us.

We are truly grateful for all that you have done and continue to do.

Your legacy will inspire future generations to follow in your footsteps and make a positive difference in the world.

Once again, thank you, Mr. Carver.