writing is just a process of connections–Raymond Carver
it was my sophomore year of college when i first found Carver. i had enrolled in the required English 1B class and was at the Spartan Bookstore picking up my books for the class when i got to the 3rd on the list–What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. i picked the book up and remember not being impressed by its cheesy artwork and worn spine. i bought everything in college used so to save a buck or two.
i was surprised to see that it was the first book on the green sheet, mr. peterson i believe was passionate about Carver’s work…not outright, but in a more subtle manner that was evident in the way he held the book, the way he spoke about the man that would enjoy a screwdriver in the afternoon while teaching a class of intro to short story writing at state.
i never was into short story writing, might i add. i always thought it was a form of writing for those who couldn’t quite understand poetry but who couldn’t hack it as a novelist. i am a poet. it’s what i started with, what i feel at home with, and yet…Carver’s minimal approach to writing, the way he kills off superfluous wordage and leaves the bare bones that kept me reading. it was his love for short sentences that drove ideas, feelings home that had me hooked. lines like, “Ross, what a name” that i still remember, years later and remember the feeling that came over me as i read those four words. he has been my obsession since.
i have gone on to ravage bookstores and websites looking for anything he touched…short story collections, a snippet of a novel, a play, commentary, short story collections he edited, and then, i found it. what i knew i had been looking for all this time, but couldn’t utter the words…his poetry. he, like myself, like so many of us that call ourselves writers had started out with poetry…and what poetry. of all his books, its his collection of poetry entitled Ultramarine that has stolen my imagination. i have read and reread and reread this book from cover to cover and still each poem feels like a new piece ready to be read just by myself.
from Ultramarine:
An Afternoon
As he writes, without looking at the sea,
he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble.
The tide is going out across the shingle.
But it isn’t that. No,
it’s because at that moment she chooses
to walk into the room without any clothes on.
Drowsy, not even sure where she is
for a moment. She waves the hair from her forehead.
Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed,
head down. Legs sprawled. He sees her
through the doorway. Maybe
she’s remembering what happened that morning.
For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him.
And sweetly smiles.
