po·e·sy n. pl. po·e·sies 1. Poetical works; poetry. 2. The art or practice of composing poems. 3. The inspiration involved in composing poetry. [Middle English poesie, from Old French, from Latin posis, from Greek poisis, from poiein, to create; see kwei-2 in Indo-European roots.]

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Saturday, May 25, 2013

Raymond Carver – May 25

Raymond Clevie Carver, Jr. May 25, 1938 – August 2, 1988 

                       This Morning by Raymond Carver

                       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.


                      The Best Time Of The Day by Raymond Carver

                       Cool summer nights.
                       Windows open.
                       Lamps burning.
                       Fruit in the bowl.
                       And your head on my shoulder.
                       These the happiest moments in the day.

                       Next to the early morning hours,
                       of course. And the time
                       just before lunch.
                       And the afternoon, and
                       early evening hours.
                       But I do love

                       these summer nights.
                       Even more, I think,
                       than those other times.
                       The work finished for the day.
                       And no one who can reach us now.
                       Or ever.

                       Late Fragment by Raymond Carver
                       And did you get what
                       you wanted from this life, even so?
                       I did.
                       And what did you want?
                       To call myself beloved, to feel myself
                       beloved on the earth.