All of Us: The Collected Poems
Each morning we took our coffee in front of the painting where Ray could sometimes be seen sitting alone during the day, meditating. When I look at it now, his particular aliveness seems imbedded there in the pageantry of a cycle we had seen played out year after year in the river below our house. In the painting the fish are heading upstream, bowed eternally to the light in a fierce, determined flight above water, and above them the ghost fish float unimpeded in an opposing current, relieved of their struggle.
In Alaska, on one last fishing trip, we raised glasses of Perrier to toast the book, and ourselves, for having managed to finish it against so many odds. In the crucial last days of our work, guests had arrived for an extended stay and Ray’s son had come from Germany. We’d kept working, parceling out the day, until the work was done. “Don’t tell them we’ve finished,” he said to me—“them” meaning the guests. “I need you here.” So the book as pretext allowed us a few more precious mornings with each other before what would be the final onset of his illness. After our guests had left, we began making calls, trying desperately to arrange a trip to Russia to see Chekhov’s grave and to visit the houses of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. There were places associated with Akhmatova that I wanted to find. Even though this wasn’t to be, our planning in those last days was, in itself, a kind of dream-visit that lifted our spirits. Later, when Ray entered the hospital, we talked about what a great trip it would have been. “I’ll go there,” I said, “I’ll go for us.” “I’ll get there before you,” he said, and grinned. “I’m traveling faster.”
After Ray’s death at home in Port Angeles on August 2, the mail was heaped for weeks with letters and cards from people all over the world mourning his passing, sending me often very moving accounts of their having met him even briefly, things he’d said, acts of kindness performed, stories of his life before I had known him. Copies of obituaries also began to arrive from papers around the country, and one day I opened a packet from London with the obituary from the Sunday Times. The headline above the photograph of Ray with his hands in his jacket pockets reads simply: “The American Chekhov”. From the Guardian there was the possessive “America’s Chekhov”. I seemed to be reading these with Ray, and to be carrying his knowing of it. Either headline would have been accolade enough to have made him humbly and deeply happy.
It seems important finally to say that Ray did not regard his poetry as simply a hobby or a pastime he turned to when he wanted a rest from fiction. Poetry was a spiritual necessity. The truths he came to through his poetry involved a dismantling of artifice to a degree not even Williams, whom he had admired early on, could have anticipated. He’d read Milosz’s lines in “Ars Poetica?” and they’d appealed to him:
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
Ray used his poetry to flush the tiger from hiding. Further, he did not look on his writing life as the offering of products to a readership, and he was purposefully disobedient when pressures were put on him to write stories because that’s where his reputation was centered and that’s where the largest reward in terms of publication and audience lay. He didn’t care. When he received the Mildred and Harold Strauss Living Award, given only to prose writers, he immediately sat down and wrote two books of poetry. He was not “building a career”; he was living a vocation and this meant that his writing, whether poetry or prose, was tied to inner mandates that insisted more and more on an increasingly unmediated apprehension of his subjects, and poetry was the form that best allowed this.
I can imagine that it might be tempting for those who loved Ray’s fiction to the exclusion of his poetry to feel he had gone astray in giving so much of his time to poetry in the final years. But this would be to miss the gift of freshness his poems offer in a passionless era. Because judgments about the contribution of poets lag far behind those volunteered toward fiction writers in this country, it will likely be some time before Ray’s impact as a poet can be adequately assessed. So far, the most astute essay on his poetry is Greg Kuzma’s, published in the Michigan Quarterly Review (Spring 1988). It could be that Ray, in his own fashion, has done as much to challenge the idea of what poetry can be as he did to reinvigorate the short story. What is sure is that he wrote and lived his last ten years by his own design, and as his companion in that life, I’m glad to have helped him keep his poetry alive for the journey, for the comfort and soul making he drew from it so crucially in his too-early going.
TESS GALLAGHER
Appendix 3
Small Press Sources of Carver’s Major Books
In his poetry as in his fiction Raymond Carver was a frequent contributor to little magazines and small presses. Carver was also an inveterate reviser and republisher of his work. To varying degrees these practices shape his four major poetry collections: Fires (1983), Where Water Comes Together with Other Water (1985), Ultramarine (1986), and A New Path to the Waterfall (1989). Each of these books includes poems previously published in one or more of Carver’s small-press books.
Moreover, extensive revision and republishing occur within Carver’s small-press publications. More than a dozen poems from his first book, Near Klamath (1968), reappear in his second, Winter Insomnia (1970). Eleven poems from those two books find their way into his third book of poetry, At Night the Salmon Move (1976). This recursive process culminates in Fires: Essays, Poems, Stories, a miscellany initially published by a small press (Capra), then reprinted by a major one (Vintage). Of the fifty poems in Fires, all but a dozen derive from Near Klamath, Winter Insomnia, and At Night the Salmon Move. As Carver explains in his afterword to Fires,* some poems have been revised so slightly that changes are nearly imperceptible. Others have been lengthened, shortened, rephrased, retitled—in effect, rewritten. Significant textual variants created by this process are recorded in the notes on individual poems.
Described below are the small-press books Raymond Carver drew on in creating his major poetry collections. In addition to the early books Near Klamath (1968), Winter Insomnia (1970), and At Night the Salmon Move (1976), the list includes the limited editions This Water (1985), Early for the Dance (1986), and Those Days (1987). First publication or subsequent reprinting of poems as broadsides, greeting cards, or poetry pamphlets is recorded in the notes on individual poems.
Near Klamath (1968)
Publication: [Sacramento, Calif.]: The English Club of Sacramento State College, [1968].
Limitation: none.
Illustrations: none.
Dedication: none.
Epigraph:
The more horses you yoke the quicker everything will go—not the rending of the block from its foundation, which is impossible, but the snapping of the traces and with that the gay and empty journey.
Franz Kafka, The Great Wall of China
Contents: Because Near Klamath is unpaginated, page numbers are given in brackets.
Near Klamath [1]
Iowa Summer 1967 [2]
Wes Hardin: From a Photograph [3—4]
Deschutes River [5—6]
Bankruptcy [7]
Highway 99E from Chico: November 1966 [8]
The Mailman as Cancer Patient [9—10]
Balzac [11]
Beginnings [12]
Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year [13]
With a Telescope Rod on Cowiche Creek [14]
Autumn [15]
Poem for a Lady Pathologist [16—17]
The Hunter [18]
Woman Bathing [19]
For Semra, with Martial Vigor [20—3]
Trying to Sle
ep Late on a Saturday Morning in November [24]
Antonin Artaud [25]
Drinking While Driving [26]
Spring, 480 BC [27]
The World Book Salesman [28]
Bobber [29]
In the Trenches with Robert Graves [30]
The Man Outside [31—2]
The Brass Ring [33]
These Fish [The Current] [34]
Winter Insomnia (1970)
Publication: Santa Cruz, Calif.: Kayak Books, 1970.
Limitation: 1,000 unsigned copies.
Illustrations: block prints by Robert McChesney.
Dedication: For Dennis Schmitz
Epigraph: same as in Near Klamath (above).
Contents:
The News Carried to Macedonia (9—10)
Conspirators (11)
Betrayal (12)
The Mosque in Jaffa (15)
Looking for Work (16)
Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year (17)
With a Telescope Rod on Cowiche Creek (18)
Wes Hardin: From a Photograph (21)
The Contact (22)
Winter Insomnia (23)
Bankruptcy (24)
Iowa Summer 1967 (27)
Highway 99E from Chico: November 1966 (28)
Not Far from Here (29)
The Wall [Forever] (30)
Threat (33)
Balzac (34)
For the Egyptian Coin Today, Arden, Thank You (37)
The Transformation (38—9)
For Semra, with Martial Vigor (40—1)
The World Book Salesman (42)
Poem for a Lady Pathologist (45)
Near Klamath (46)
Seeds (47)
Something Is Happening (48)
This Room (51)
Adultery (52—3)
These Fish [The Current] (54)
Drinking While Driving (55)
Colophon: One thousand copies of this book designed and printed by George Hitchcock at the Kayak Press.
At Night the Salmon Move (1976)
Publication: Santa Barbara: Capra Press, 1976.
Limitation: 100 numbered copies signed by the author.
Illustrations: drawings by Marcia/maris.
Dedication: For Jerry Davis and Amy Burk Wright
Epigraph: none.
Contents:
Morning, Thinking of Empire (11)
Prosser (12)
Trying to Sleep Late on a Saturday Morning in November (13)
At Night the Salmon Move (14)
Spring, 480 BC (15)
Beginnings (17)
Sudden Rain (18)
Country Matters (19)
Rhodes (20—1)
Tel Aviv and Life on the Mississippi (22—3)
Your Dog Dies (25)
In the Trenches with Robert Graves (26)
Hunter (27)
The Cougar (28—9)
Poem for Hemingway & L.C. Williams [sic] (31)
Deschutes River (32)
You Don’t Know What Love Is (33—7)
Autumn (38)
Bobber (39)
These Fish [The Current] (40)
The Mailman as Cancer Patient (41)
A Summer in Sacramento (42—3)
This Word Love (44)
Colophon: Designed for Capra Press by Noel Young in Santa Barbara, February 1976. Printed & bound by Mackintosh & Young. 100 copies were handbound by Emily Paine.
This Water (1985)
Publication: Concord, NH: William B. Ewert, 1985.
Limitation: 136 numbered copies signed by the author.
Illustrations: none.
Dedication: for Tess
Epigraph: none.
Contents:
The Trestle (7—8)
Harley’s Swans (9—10)
Woolworth’s, 1954 (11—13)
Wenas Ridge (14—15)
Our First House in Sacramento (16)
My Dad’s Wallet (17—18)
Where Water Comes Together with Other Water (19)
A Haircut (20—1)
Colophon: This edition was designed by John Kristensen. It was printed letterpress from Optima type on Mohawk Superfine text and bound at the Firefly Press, Somerville, Massachusetts in January, 1985. Of 136 copies signed by the author, this is one of [either] 100 handsewn in paper wrappers [or] 36 specially bound in boards.
Early for the Dance (1986)
Publication: Concord, NH: William B. Ewert, 1986.
Limitation: 136 numbered copies signed by the author.
Illustrations: none.
Dedication: for Tess
Epigraph: none.
Contents:
Limits (7—8)
Migration (9—10)
Mother (11)
Its Course (12—13)
Powder-Monkey (14)
Egress (15—16)
The Mail (17)
The Autopsy Room (18)
Circulation (19—20)
The Meadow (21)
Colophon: This edition, designed by John Kristensen, was printed letterpress from Optima type on Mohawk Superfine text and bound at the Firefly Press, Somerville, Massachusetts in April, 1986. It is limited to 136 copies. Of these, 100 copies, numbered 1—100, are handsewn in paper wrappers and 36 deluxe copies, numbered I—XXXVI, are specially bound in cloth and paper over boards. All copies are signed by the author.
Those Days: Early Writings by Raymond Carver: Eleven Poems and a Story (1987)
Publication: Elmwood, Conn.: Raven Editions, 1987.
Limitation: 140 copies signed by the author.
Illustrations: tipped-in colorplate frontispiece by Ronald J. Sloan.
Dedication: For Dick, Bill, Dennis, and Tess
Epigraph: none.
Contents (poems):
Those Days (3)
On the Pampas Tonight (4)
Poem on My Birthday, July 2 (5—6)
Return (7)
The Sunbather, to Herself (8)
The Sturgeon (9—11)
No Heroics, Please (12)
Sunday Night (13)
My Wife (14)
Two Worlds (15)
In a Greek Orthodox Church near Daphne (16)
Colophon: First published by Raven Editions in 1987, Those Days is limited to 140 copies: numbered copies 1—100 are hand sewn and glued into paper wrappers; 26 copies lettered A—Z are hand bound in paper over boards; and 14 presentation copies hors commerce are hand bound in quarter leather with paper over boards. All copies are signed by the author.…
* * *
* In Britain this short essay appears as “On Rewriting” in No Heroics, Please: Uncollected Writings (pp. 107-10).
Appendix 4
A Note on In a Marine Light
In a Marine Light: Selected Poems (1987)
In a Marine Light is a selected and combined edition of Where Water Comes Together with Other Water (1985) and Ultramarine (1986). As such, it presents 112 poems from those two books arranged in a unique six-part sequence. In a Marine Light was published in England, and no corresponding American edition exists.
First edition: London: Collins Harvill, 1987. Publication date: 1 June 1987.
First paperback edition: London: Picador, 1988. Publication date: June 1988.
Dedication: Tess Gallagher
Epigraph:
Light is my being, light in the kitchen,
evening light, morning light.
Light between despair and luminosity…
The nets that wavered in the light
keep on shining from the sea.
Pablo Neruda, Isla Negra
Contents:
I
Happiness (15)
The Projectile (16—17)
Woolworth’s, 1954 (18—20)
Balsa Wood (21)
Shiftless (22)
Son (23)
Money (24—5)
The Meadow (26—7)
In a Marine Light near Sequim, Washington (28)
&
nbsp; A Walk (29)
My Dad’s Wallet (30—1)
To Begin With (32—4)
This Morning (35—6)
II
Memory (39)
Still Looking Out for Number One (40)
A Forge, and a Scythe (41)
Our First House in Sacramento (42—3)
The Car (44—5)
NyQuil (46)
Late Night with Fog and Horses (47—8)
What I Can Do (49)
Energy (50)
The Author of Her Misfortune (51)
The Little Room (52)
All Her Life (53)
Next Year (54—5)
To My Daughter (56—7)
From the East, Light (58)
Mother (59)
Union Street: San Francisco, Summer 1975 (60—1)
Romanticism (62)
Anathema (63—4)
The Autopsy Room (65—6)
Hope (67—8)
Where They’d Lived (69)
Jean’s TV (70—1)
Tomorrow (72)
The Trestle (73—4)
Harley’s Swans (75—6)
The Cranes (77)
III
For Tess (81)
A Haircut (82—3)
Happiness in Cornwall (84—5)
Venice (86)
The Lightning Speed of the Past (87)
Wenas Ridge (88—9)
Blood (90)
Limits (91—2)