Raymond Carver 1938 - 1988

[lonndubh]

[quote=]he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments [/quote]

And what about these lines for dark humour!!
whenever i find a Doctor who says something like this

I will laugh
Or maybe it was a Priest

[daveeliver]

a recent poem by Raymond Carver's wife Tess Gallagher

Montenegro by Tess Gallagher


After my poems, read in translation
By Varja against a backdrop of photos
projected of Ray and me when we were young,
the man in the black leather jacket
approaches to tell me hates the Irish,
especially the sound of their language.
I repeat that I am Irish, Cherokee and English,
something already mentioned in Varja’s
introduction. He doesn’t register.
He worked with an Irishman. He now knows
all Irish people. Nonetheless he pursues me

at the party. Having heard of my cancer
survival, he confesses a fear
of prostate cancer. He wants to know
my treatment, trying to gauge my
survival chances from drug properties-
how much was done to keep me here.
From his questions I realise he’s
a pharmaceutical salesman. He casts

a rant against everyone around us who
is smoking and that is everyone. ‘You
could have stopped Ray,’ he tosses, widening
his will to damage. Not having met Ray’s demons
he could imagine lifting
them. Nonetheless, I wish it had been true,
and that Ray was, in fact,
standing there instead of me.
But I cannot even calm this man,
soon two writers lift him under his arms
and carry him outside like a small disabled

scarecrow. The residue of accusation, of
hating the Irish, of disgust with smokers
hangs in the air-everyone still
talking about him, ‘He said he was
from Sarajevo,’ Varja says,’ but maybe just
to engage my emotions.’
Someone offers: ‘His accent was Northern or
maybe Bosnian,’ ‘Well it doesn’t matter,’ Varja
answers. ‘No it doesn’t matter.’ Someone else
quietly pulls the moment into
focus. It isn’t about where he came from or
ethnic identity. He is one man saying

what he says and getting himself kicked out
onto the terrace above the river while everyone
tries to get away from the sludge, the intricate
detritus of what they wanted to feel
about a man nobody knows who came into
their midst with unhappy things
on his mind, and unhappy ways of trying to make
the world carry it, and him. Yes,

we still have to carry him. And even now,
remembering Ray, I make room for the scald
of him. his headless taunt, the outcast moment
when his hatred-sword was raised over me
and I wished for him, somewhere out there
in the night, the largesse of that one whose gift
had brought us all together.

[lonndubh]

I make room for the scald
of him. his headless taunt, the outcast moment
when his hatred-sword was raised over me
and I wished for him, somewhere out there
in the night, the largesse of that one whose gift
had brought us all together.

Wonderful sentiment ,
Its ages since I have seen the word scald used .
It was a favorite phrase of my mother's if you bothered her too much. 'You're a terrible scald ' she'd say
Great poem Dave

[Red Poppy]

Hi Dave
Not sure where the poem was cut/pasted from but there's an unfortunate, but darkly comic, typo:

"..... Nonetheless he pursues me

at the party. Having heard of my cancer
survival, he confesses a fear
of prostrate cancer."

This should read "prostate cancer."

[daveeliver]

Mea culpa Red Poppy,
Thanks for that, I've edited the poem.
Spent hours trying to find a copy of the poem online and ended up typing it out while watching The Accused and panicking over the coming weeks and thinking about a million other things.
I'm surprised there's only one mistake!

[Red Poppy]

Oops - sorry Dave but I'm sure Ray and Tess would be amused.
She has a brilliant sense of humour.
Happy Christmas across the Irish Sea

[Steven]

Hi,

Coincidental to this thread, am reading "Raymond Carver An Oral Biography," by Sam Halpert. -- Interesting
reminiscenes of people who knew Raymond Carver.

[lonndubh]

Read an interesting review on it lately
"

I was awfully excited to find this. I love Carver and I love biographies, but I hate biographers. So, an oral history ought to be ideal, and it nearly is. Sadly, rather than amputate the voice of the interviewer and arrange vignettes of each interview into a narrative (the ideal format for oral history), Halpert leaves his own voice in, and he's consistently overmatched. He constantly pries into Carver's alcoholism and, consequentially, the book is mostly an account of the "Bad Raymond days" (This could be because Carver's sober years were so intimately tied to Tess Gallagher, who had her testimony withdrawn shortly before the book was published.). More irritating, though, is his derogating and downright ignorant insistence that Carver's work is openly autobiographical: a tired, utterly bankrupt position, which interviewees uniformly meet with resistance, sometimes bordering on open hostility. And rightfully so: much of Halpert's inquiry amounts to little more than inelegant gossip-stirring. His unyeilding fascination with the origins of "Intimacy" is particularly shameful.

That said, the book is certainly a valuable one. The private anecdotes are illuminating and often hilarious, the critical analysis is astute, the eulogies are earnest and stirring. Most valuable, though, is the attention paid to Carver's relationship with his first wife, Maryann, who turns out to be a far larger character in his life than I had previously imagined. I admit, I fell a little bit in love with her - despite the whole New Age thing. The narrative delineated by Maryann's own testimony as well as second-hand accounts of their relationship is deeply moving - epic, even. Clearly the two of them had a profound, life-long connection, forged, I imagine, out of decades of shared hardship and mutually-inflicted suffering (both emotional and physical), as well as whatever numinous forces tether one human being to another. Even the violence started to make sense to me by the end of the book. Tess Gallagher seems almost peripheral in comparison, though this is an inaccurate portrayal, owing entirely to the absence of Gallagher's testimony. I can't help but wonder if the focus on Maryann is either a consequence of or the reason for the absence of Gallagher's interview. Either way, Gallagher's absence is terribly unfortunate: it leaves us with half a book. Carver himself spoke of his "old life" (the "Bad Raymond days") and his "new life" - his sober, contented life with Gallagher. The former is well-covered here. The latter is conspicuously missing. (less)
like

[Red Poppy]

I really enjoyed the Oral i- and the review you posted lonndubh.
Interesting review.

[lonndubh]

And back to Raymond himself
on account of us having snow on the ground still
and because it was good to read it again this evening
Which gives me new Hope for the morning .


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

[DennisBerlin]

Just am happy to find this thread.

I was almost starting an own, but then decided to first search the topic.

A good friend of mine introduced me to Carver's poetry last year. I never had heared of this guy before.
This month I decided to buy a copy of "All of Us - Collected Poems" and I am really, deeply in love with that book. How could I have missed this great poet all over the years?

I'm pretty curious if Leonard knew his poetry- and what he thought about it. I think he might have liked it. But I can't remember if he ever mentioned Carver. - Perhaps some of the more versed minds in "Cohen- lore" could answer that question?


Dennis