Download All of Us: The Collected Poems by Raymond Carver PDF

By Raymond Carver

"Carver's poetry is like a virtually invisible strand of fishing line reeling us all jointly, connecting us by means of the heart." --San Francisco Examiner and Chronicle

This prodigiously wealthy assortment means that Raymond Carver used to be not just America's best author of brief fiction, but in addition considered one of its such a lot large-hearted and affecting poets. Like Carver's tales, the greater than three hundred poems in we all are marked through a willing realization to the actual global; an uncanny skill to compress immense feeling into discreet moments; a voice of conversational intimacy, and an unstinting sympathy.

This whole version brings jointly the entire poems of Carver's 5 earlier books, from Fires to the posthumously released No Heroics, Please. It additionally comprises bibliographical and textual notes on person poems; a chronology of Carver's existence and paintings; and a relocating advent via Carver's widow, the poet Tess Gallagher.

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Extra resources for All of Us: The Collected Poems

Example text

Garden chewing on the stars and enclosed, the fissure you’re hearing sinks what you’re hearing in the days, toothless as salt. I guard you, I read until I am carved. • a hole that rotates into a day thus largely I survive apocryphal event and reason to hang her harp through the convulvulus of an engine of our love: that all dolls like ours be beaten, be written, be teared away. I had produced no music. And the friends move on. 27 Willard 11/7/06 2:56 PM Page 28 Willard 11/7/06 2:56 PM Page 29 III Willard 11/7/06 2:56 PM Page 30 Willard 11/7/06 2:56 PM Page 31 Old Hours talked into relations it could still be there—an episode there like a lamb.

Out of noses, veritable, as milk, pour him, that sleepy foliage will not mind. Sing up, toys. . The Damask. Recommending things stuffed into inconsumable tongs of golden hun, I purge the sop, I miss the sponges he’d lost out his wings, listen to a thistle who may not know a mountainside from the shoulders profiting slant out of old Europe. There is hope drooping and sawed to meet us. We care to dig ourselves in highest formations as are possible, out of the pictures there. Wax Bay. No longer do proposals bind our hands with scented stems, as child may think.

And the friends move on. 27 Willard 11/7/06 2:56 PM Page 28 Willard 11/7/06 2:56 PM Page 29 III Willard 11/7/06 2:56 PM Page 30 Willard 11/7/06 2:56 PM Page 31 Old Hours talked into relations it could still be there—an episode there like a lamb. The curls are something when they arrive instead of my skimpy reason toward loving you if one can aim instead of being shot out of his own heart. I am off to the interior of the pond worn from the cut-off fingers a-swimming in it, not through it, as the paper bag you carry it in has the scenery of our launch around it.

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