In the original language, it is a wonder.

In Italian, it is at least a precious gem.

This simple statement holds a great deal of significance. The original language often contains the essence and authenticity of a work, carrying with it the unique charm and characteristics that make it truly special.

When translated into Italian, it takes on a new form, yet still retains its value as a precious gem.

The Italian language has its own beauty and elegance, and when used to express the ideas and emotions of the original work, it can enhance and enrich the overall experience for the reader.

Whether in the original language or in Italian translation, this piece is sure to captivate and delight those who encounter it.

It is a testament to the power of language and the ability of great works to transcend cultural and linguistic boundaries.

3.5 stars!

I just randomly picked this up as I read a couple of the poems and truly liked them! My favorite poems are as follows:

Rain

I woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. I fought against it for a moment. Then I looked out the window at the rain and gave in. I completely put myself in the care of this rainy morning. Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgivable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

Locking Yourself Out, Then Trying to Get Back In

And it was something to look in like that, unseen, from the deck. To be there, inside, and not be there. I don't even think I can talk about it. I brought my face close to the glass and imagined myself inside, sitting at the desk, looking up from my work now and again, thinking about some other place and some other time, the people I had loved then. I stood there for a minute in the rain, considering myself to be the luckiest of men, even though a wave of grief passed through me, even though I felt violently ashamed of the injury I'd done back then. I bashed that beautiful window and stepped back in.

The Road

What a rough night! It's either no dreams at all, or else a dream that may or may not be a dream portending loss. Last night I was dropped off without a word on a country road. A house back in the hills showed a light no bigger than a star. But I was afraid to go there and kept walking. Then to wake up to rain striking the glass, flowers in a vase near the window, the smell of coffee, and you touching your hair with a gesture like someone who has been gone for years. But there's a piece of bread under the table near your feet and a line of ants moving back and forth from a crack in the floor. You've stopped smiling. Do me a favor this morning. Draw the curtain and come back to bed. Forget the coffee. We'll pretend we're in a foreign country and in love.

I firmly believe that the beginnings of books hold utmost importance. It is precisely at this juncture that one gets an initial sense of the book. It sets the overall tone and primes the reader for the journey ahead. Naturally, in a collection of poems, the first poem needs to capture the reader's attention. In this regard, I almost gave up reading. The first poem in this collection, titled "Woolworth's, 1954", left a rather unpleasant taste in my mouth. It seemed to cheapen sensuality with the way things were portrayed. It felt as if it was striving for a certain shock value, which I don't particularly appreciate. However, having read some of Carver's works before, I knew that not all the poems in his collections were like this. So, I persevered and indeed discovered some true gems within this collection. I suppose if his intention was to have an emotional impact, he achieved it. But I'm just not certain if it was the "right" kind of impact.

The poem with the title of the collection, "Where Water Comes Together With Other Water", was tucked away in the middle of the collection. While the title is quite striking, it wasn't the most dynamic poem to be chosen as the title piece. I think it would have been better to utilize one of my other favorite poems as the title of the collection. But then again, everyone has their own preferences, I guess.

Overall, the collection is decent. There are some poems that I truly love, such as "Fear", "Romanticism", "The Poem I Didn't Write", "After Rainy Days", and "My Death". On the other hand, there are also some that I didn't quite like, namely "Woolworth's 1954", "The Juggler at Heaven's Gate", and "My Daughter and Apple Pie".

As much as I take great pleasure in his stories, I can't help but wonder if perhaps his poetry might prove to be the more lasting and enduring legacy.

All three of the poetry collections from his final years are truly filled to the brim with remarkable poems. This particular collection contains eighty poems, and of course, not all of them are to my personal taste. After years of repeatedly rereading, I have only bookmarked twenty-one of the poems. Usually, I tend to just read those bookmarked poems, but this time around, I decided to reread them all and did not add any new bookmarks.

So, I have my absolute favorites such as "Woolworth's, 1954," "Anathema," "Locking Yourself Out, Then Trying To Get Back In," "Next Door," "Harley's Swans," "The Windows of the Summer Vacation Homes," and "The Trestle." Some of the other poems I've bookmarked due to a particularly striking line, or a powerful stanza, or an interesting technique. Others because of a theme that weaves its way through his body of work, or perhaps because they are like mini-stories, or could have potentially been developed into full-fledged stories.

It's truly fascinating to explore the depth and breadth of his poetic output and discover the many different reasons why each poem holds a special place in my heart.

He wasn't a good poet, was he?

And if these poems are any indication, one might assume that he was probably a dreary, boring man.

There are only a few good poems here, perhaps fifteen at most.

Often described as understated, I, however, found them oddly overwrought and a little too obvious.

Moreover, there was a sense of distance in them.

It seems that repression served as a barrier to intimacy within these works.

Maybe the poet was holding back something deep within, preventing the true essence of his emotions from shining through.

As a result, the poems lack the warmth and connection that could have made them truly great.

Despite the few闪光点, the overall impression is of a poet who has not quite managed to break free from the constraints that are holding him back.

Interestingly, I was already engrossed in this book when I embarked on Dannye Romine Powell's "In the Sunroom with Raymond Carver".

These two individuals have the shared experience of witnessing their children descend into the abyss that addiction can lead a person to. In Raymond Carver's situation, he openly acknowledges that he, his wife, and his daughter were all alcoholics.

Besides the poems that deal with addiction, Mr. Carver writes in a style that I predominantly regard as prose presented in poetry form. However, despite this, I still find great pleasure in the reading.

Some of the poems in the latter part of the book are not centered around alcoholism. Notably, he does an exceptionally fine job with "Away" and "Venice". These poems offer a different perspective and showcase his versatility as a writer.

Overall, the combination of these two works provides a unique and thought-provoking exploration of various themes, including addiction and the human condition.

I'm not really much of a poetry reader. To be honest, poetry has always seemed a bit of a mystery to me. But there's something about Carver's writing that has truly captured my attention.

The sparseness and clarity of his work are simply amazing. It's as if he can convey so much with just a few carefully chosen words.

The poem "For Tess" has been a favorite of mine for years. It's filled with beautiful, quiet imagery that lingers in my mind long after I've finished reading it.

I can picture the scenes he describes so vividly, as if I'm right there experiencing them myself.

There's a certain simplicity to the poem that makes it all the more powerful. It's a reminder that sometimes, the most profound emotions can be expressed in the simplest of ways.

Overall, I'm so glad I discovered Carver's poetry. It has opened my eyes to a whole new world of literary beauty.

It truly pleases me to have a deep affection for rivers.

I love them not just in their current state but all the way back to their very source.

There is something enchanting about following the path of a river from its humble beginnings.

It's as if I am uncovering a hidden story with each step.

Moreover, I find myself loving everything that increases my understanding and appreciation of these magnificent waterways.

Whether it's the diverse flora and fauna that inhabit their banks or the unique geological formations they carve out, every aspect adds to the beauty and wonder of the rivers.

This love for rivers is not just a passing fancy but a profound connection that enriches my life in countless ways.

It allows me to see the world from a different perspective and reminds me of the power and beauty of nature.

I would always include Carver on my top 10 list. I'm not sure how many of his original works I still haven't read. So, when I decided to read this slim volume, I did so with some trepidation. I'm worried that my tastes have changed, or that I've moved past the time of wonder when reading this author was like experiencing crystalline truth, unbearable and heartbreaking. Has my sense of taste evolved, or become too jaded, to the point where I can no longer enjoy what used to bring intense joy, intertwined with longing and traces of manageable pain (just enough to perfect the flavor)? My sense of smell and hearing aren't what they used to be, and my childhood memories sometimes feel a bit petrified, which scares me.

My first encounter with Carver was through a collection called Where I'm Calling From. It was actually a gift (in idea) from one of my brothers who doesn't read now but became aware of this author in college (or the idea of this author, as he is more cerebral than literary). This book shocked and amazed me. I recall the bitter alcoholic and violent feuds with lovers, parents, and family in the great northwest, where the rivers run cold and human habitation is poor and harsh. I also obtained a cassette with several stories read by Peter Reigert, which were stunning, especially the semi-autobiographical one about his time in rehab, recalling his first taste and early love affair with ethanol as a young man, and the tales he heard from others over cigarettes during the cirrhotic end times. Carver wrote so purely that I just knew his art was perfect, and I devoured it like a sublime elixir. Once, during a fever, I read the entire Carver Country about his life, his loves, and his home, with beautiful black and white photos alongside.

Here I am, a couple of decades or more after my first experience with Ray, trying to catch up on my reading list and clear my decks to read something else that my reading buddy and I have planned (obligations, that's my life). At first, I was underwhelmed by these poems, a bit disappointed, and somewhat ashamed that I would give this a 3-star rating (average, in my opinion). It's a minor tragedy since, with my (hopefully) 20 years of reading life left, I hope to only consume what is good to great (4-5 stars) in my carefully stocked library of actual books. Reading this late at night, in bed, with the pains in my neck and overall fatigue, wasn't the ideal way to go. Poetry isn't always easy for me; I need to stay focused. But I did have lingering doubts that my dulled senses were missing the essence. This was published in 1986, originally in 1984, later in life for Carver, who died at 50 in 1988. His reminiscence of his old life, stitched together with his beloved Tess (second wife), runs throughout. Eventually, later in the book, we got back to the old times, and I enjoyed it. But this isn't his best, I'm sure. His own health issues were likely draining his energy at this point, or so I guess.

On page 49, he imagines the unimaginable in 2020 in the title (surely a worldwide pandemic wasn't in his mind then): "Which of us will be left then - old, dazed, unclear - but willing to talk about our dead friends? Talk and talk, like an old faucet leaking. So that the young ones, respectful, touchingly curious, will find themselves stirred by the recollections." On page 80: "At that moment, bright blood burst rushed from his nose, spattering the green felt cloth. He dropped the dice. Stepped back amazed. And then terrified as blood ran down his shirt. God, what is happening to me? He cried. Took hold of my arm. I heard Death's engines turning. But I was young at the time, and drunk, and wanted to play. I didn't have to listen." Like Carver, I have flashes of odd memories, and he managed to commit them to verse. On page 91: "More blood on the counter. A trail of it. Drops of blood on the bottom of the refrigerator where the fish lay wrapped and gutted. Everywhere this blood. Mingling with thoughts in my mind of the time we'd had - that dear young wife and I." Here, Carver is likely remembering that he once loved his first wife and was happy. These poems are full of those bittersweet memories before he went through his crises (fame, divorce, three times committed for alcoholism in one year in the late seventies). On page 129, there are more fond memories, this time of his father, and for which I love this author: "And from the trestle I could look down and see my dad when I needed to see him. My dad drinking that cold water. My sweet father. The river, its meadows, and firs, and the trestle. That. Where I once stood. I wish I could do that without having to plead with myself for it. And feel sick of myself for getting involved in lesser things. I know it's time I changed my life. This life - the one with its complications and phone calls - is unbecoming, and a waste of time. I want to plunge my hands in clear water. The way he did. Again and then again."

I simply flew through this piece.

However, I feel that I may need to take a more leisurely and in-depth exploration of it.

I have an unwavering love for good narrative poetry.

It has the power to transport me to different worlds and make me experience a wide range of emotions.

Carver, in particular, is an extremely impressive poet.

His works are filled with vivid imagery and profound insights.

Each line seems to be carefully crafted to convey a specific message or evoke a particular feeling.

Reading his poetry is like embarking on a journey of discovery, where I uncover new layers of meaning with each passing stanza.

I look forward to spending more time with his works and delving deeper into the beauty and complexity of his narrative poetry.

Borrowed this from a guy in my poetry workshop. I had only read a few Raymond Carver poems before, and this one was truly a delight. It was a quick and easygoing read, filled with poems that resembled a more conversational Jack Gilbert. He really has a remarkable knack for creating great endings. Endings that make you still think about them a week later.

These are narrative poems, which aren't always my favorite genre. However, he managed to make me enjoy being led along by the story. (Plus, I read this collection about four times as quickly as any other poetry collection I've read in the past few years. This is because there was less lyric to get stuck rereading. And I do love rereading! But the change was a nice one.)

This excerpt is from the end of a long poem about visiting the cemetery in Montparnasse, in Paris. The poet is there with his adult son, who doesn't want to be there, and a "white-haired guard" who is acting as a tour guide. After visiting the graves of Baudelaire and others:

from Ask Him

The guard would rather be doing this than something else. He lights his pipe, looks at his watch. It's almost time for his lunch and a glass of wine. "Ask him," I say, "If he wants to be buried in this cemetery when he dies. Ask him where he wants to be buried." My son is capable of saying anything. I recognize the words tombeau and mort in his mouth. The guard stops. It's clear his thoughts have been elsewhere. Underwater warfare, the music hall, the cinema. Something to eat and the glass of wine. Not corruption, no, and the falling away. Not annihilation. Not his death.

He looks from one to the other of us. Who are we kidding? Are we making a bad joke? He salutes and walks away. Heading for a table at an outdoor café. Where he can take off his cap, run his fingers through his hair. Hear laughter and voices. The heavy clink of silverware. The ringing of glasses. Sun on the windows. Sun on the sidewalk and in the leaves. Sun finding its way onto his table, his glass, his hands.

I'm delving deep into Raymond Carver's "All of Us," gathering all his poems. I adored and would award five stars to his initial book of poetry titled "Fires" - though it's not a distinct title on Goodreads. The second book is this one, "Where Water Comes Together With Other Water," and it contains one of his most renowned passages: You simply go out and shut the door/ without thinking. And when you look back/ at what you’ve done/ it's too late. If this sounds/ like the story of life, okay.

But this book was merely well-written. It brims with understated poetic angst, yet... well, I'll stop procrastinating. It's filled with masculine posturing that felt tiresome page after page, despite my overall admiration for the writing. Below are two poems in their entirety that appear consecutively in this book. If they resonate with you, you'll likely love it. I discovered that the poems too frequently led nowhere or amounted to macho self-reflection. They're also lightly sprinkled with a romanticism for being a selfish jerk because, you know, such behavior gives rise to self-pitying poems that sound cool as the author is supposedly wiser now. Carver, in this book, is just a more refined Bukowski.

Reading Something in the Restaurant

This morning I recalled the young man
with his book, engrossed in reading at a table
by the window last night. Reading
amidst the hustle and bustle of dishes
and voices. Now and then he'd glance
up and run his finger across
his lips, as if contemplating something,
or silencing the thoughts swirling
inside his mind, the ebb
and flow within his mind. Then
he'd lower his head and return
to reading. That memory
intrudes upon my mind this morning
alongside the memory of
the girl who walked into the restaurant
that long-ago time and stood shaking her hair.
Then she sat down opposite me
without removing her coat.
I set aside whatever book I was reading, and she immediately
began to tell me there was
not a snowball's chance in hell
this thing was going to succeed.
She knew it. Then I came to realize
it too. But it was
difficult. This morning, my dear,
you ask me what's new
in the world. But my focus
is shattered. At the table next
to ours a man guffaws and guffaws
and shakes his head at what
another fellow is telling him.
But what was that young man reading?
Where did that woman go?
I've lost my place. Tell me what it is
you wished to know.


A Poem Not Against Songbirds

Ease up, songbirds. Cut me some slack.
There's no need to carry on like this,
even though it's morning. I require more sleep.

Where were you hiding when I was thirty?
When the house remained dark and silent all day,
as if someone had passed away?

And this same someone, or someone else,
prepared a massive, melancholy meal for the survivors.
A meal that endured for ten years.
Go on, sweethearts. Come back in an hour,
my friends. Then I'll be wide awake.
You'll see. This time I can guarantee it.