Tumgik
#hayden carruth
firstfullmoon · 9 months
Text
twin peaks “there is a sadness in this world” / richard jackson “sometimes I don’t know how to live in the world. why is there always this scent of sorrow?” / hayden carruth “I had always been aware that the universe is sad; everything in it, animate or inanimate, the wild creatures, the stones, the stars, was enveloped in the great sadness, pervaded by it” / padraig o tuama “not all sadness comes from you, but sometimes you are just wearing the world’s sadness for a while and trying to figure out what to do with that” / ada limón “there is a solitude in this world I cannot pierce” / rainer maria rilke “don’t be afraid to suffer—take your heaviness and give it back to the earth’s own weight; the mountains are heavy, the oceans are heavy”
542 notes · View notes
more-than-ideas · 14 days
Text
Winter ending in the last days of March. How many times has the season come and gone, with this soft inexorability? Bare patches in the meadow,snowmelt tricking down the hill in hundreds of little channels, steam rising from the sugarhouse across the valley. Someone is busy over there.
Hayden Carruth, "End of Winter" from Doctor Jazz 
25 notes · View notes
ma-pi-ma · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media
.. senza parole o tocco o sguardo furtivo, io mi stringo a te, e so di essere accettato senza parole o tocco o sguardo furtivo.
Hayden Carruth, da Poesia di Aurbun
34 notes · View notes
elizabethanism · 2 years
Text
Hayden Carruth:
Tumblr media
31 notes · View notes
havingapoemwithyou · 8 months
Text
Tumblr media
silence by Hayden Carruth
2 notes · View notes
Photo
Tumblr media
o.canada :: [thanks Paul Corby]
* * * *
The Curtain
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH
Just over the horizon a great machine of death is roaring and rearing. We can hear it always. Earthquake, starvation, the ever-renewing sump of corpse-flesh. But in this valley the snow falls silently all day, and out our window We see the curtain of it shifting and folding, hiding us away in our little house, We see earth smoothened and beautified, made like a fantasy, the snow-clad trees So graceful. In our new bed, which is big enough to seem like the north pasture almost With our two cats, Cooker and Smudgins, lying undisturbed in the southeastern and southwestern corners, We lie loving and warm, looking out from time to time. “Snowbound,” we say. We speak of the poet Who lived with his young housekeeper long ago in the mountains of the western province, the kingdom Of cruelty, where heads fell like wilted flowers and snow fell for many months Across the pass and drifted deep in the vale. In our kitchen the maple-fire murmurs In our stove. We eat cheese and new-made bread and jumbo Spanish olives Which have been steeped in our special brine of jalapeños and garlic and dill and thyme. We have a nip or two from the small inexpensive cognac that makes us smile and sigh. For a while we close the immense index of images that is our lives—for instance, The child on the Mescalero reservation in New Mexico sitting naked in 1966 outside his family’s hut, Covered with sores, unable to speak. But of course we see the child every day, We hold out our hands, we touch him shyly, we make offerings to his implacability. No, the index cannot close. And how shall we survive? We don’t and cannot and will never Know. Beyond the horizon a great unceasing noise is undeniable. The machine, Like an immense clanking vibrating shuddering unnameable contraption as big as a house, as big as the whole town, May break through and lurch into our valley at any moment, at any moment. Cheers, baby. Here’s to us. See how the curtain of snow wavers and then falls back.
Hayden Carruth, “The Curtain” from Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey: Poems, 1991-1995. Copyright © 1996 by Hayden Carruth. Reprinted with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P. O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.coppercanyonpress.org.
8 notes · View notes
litsocials · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Ilya Kaminsky - We Lived Happily During the War // Margret Atwood - Morning in the burned House // Bo Burnam - That Funny Feeling // Hayden Carruth - Silence // Drinking tea in London during the blitz // Sue Zhao
35 notes · View notes
manwalksintobar · 11 months
Text
Letter to Denise  // Hayden Carruth
Remember when you put on that wig From the grab bag and then looked at yourself In the mirror and laughed, and we laughed together? It was a transformation, glamorous flowing tresses. Who knows if you might not have liked to wear That wig permanently, but of course you Wouldn’t. Remember when you told me how You meditated, looking at a stone until You knew the soul of the stone? Inwardly I Scoffed, being the backwoods pragmatic Yankee That I was, yet I knew what you meant. I Called it love. No magic was needed. And we Loved each other too, not in the way of Romance but in the way of two poets loving A stone, and the world that the stone signified. Remember when we had that argument over Pee and piss in your poem about the bear? “Bears don’t pee, they piss,” I said. But you were Adamant. “My bears pee.” And that was that. Then you moved away, across the continent, And sometimes for a year I didn’t see you. We phoned and wrote, we kept in touch. And then You moved again, much farther away, I don’t Know where. No word from you now at all. But I am faithful, my dear Denise. And I still Love the stone, and, yes, I know its soul.
6 notes · View notes
pomogranategf · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Feeling on Top of the World from the Bottom of it
Drunk Walk Home - Mitski // South London Forever - Florence + the Machine // Matthew Cornell // Lilac Wine - Nina Simone // Ode to Elliot Smith, Ending in the First Snowfall of 2003 // A Mauve Night - Andy Plautz // Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey - Hayden Carruth // Ghost - Indigo de Souza
44 notes · View notes
poem-today · 4 months
Text
A poem by Hayden Carruth
Tumblr media
Essay
So many poems about the deaths of animals. Wilbur’s toad, Kinnell’s porcupine, Eberhart’s squirrel, and that poem by someone–Hecht? Merrill?– about cremating a woodchuck. But mostly I remember the outrageous number of them, as if every poet, I too, had written at least one animal elegy; with the result that today when I came to a good enough poem by Edwin Brock  about finding a dead fox at the edge of the sea I could not respond; as if permanent shock had deadened me. And then after a moment I began to give way to sorrow (watching myself sorrowlessly the while), not merely because part of my being had been violated and annulled, but because all these many poems over the years have been necessary–suitable and correct. This has been the time of the finishing off of the animals. They are going away–their fur and their wild eyes, their voices. Deer leap and leap in front of the screaming snowmobiles until they leap out of existence. Hawks circle once or twice around their shattered nests and then they climb to the stars. I have lived with them fifty years, we have lived with them fifty million years, and now they are going, almost gone. I don’t know if the animals are capable of reproach. But clearly they do not bother to say good-bye.
Tumblr media
Hayden Carruth (1921-2008)
Listen to Hayden Carruth read his poem (29:44).
1 note · View note
nsantand · 10 months
Text
Hayden Carruth – Ensaio
(...) Esta / tem sido a era de acabar com os animais. / Eles estão partindo – seus pelos e seus olhos selvagens, / suas vozes. Cervos saltam e saltam na frente / de estridentes snowmobiles até pularem para / fora da existência. (...)
Tantos poemas sobre mortes de animais.O sapo de Wilbur, o ouriço de Kinnell, o esquilo de Eberhart,e aquele poema de alguém – Hecht? Merrill? –sobre cremar uma marmota. Mas sobretudoeu me lembro do número ultrajante deles,como se todo poeta, inclusive eu, tivesse escrito ao menosuma elegia animal; como resultado, hoje, quando cheguei a um poema suficientemente bom de Edwin Brocksobre encontrar…
Tumblr media
View On WordPress
0 notes
thndrstd · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media
From Snow and Rock, from Chaos by Hayden Carruth My rating: 5 of 5 stars A gathering of Carruth's poems written between 1965 and 1973. Carruth is always a pleasure to read and he is fine form here as he examines his life, the people and the landscape of the Green Mountains of Vermont where he lived at the time. View all my reviews
0 notes
6peaches · 2 years
Text
Hayden Carruth - Bears at Raspberry Time
Fear. Three bears are not fear, mother and cubs come berrying in our neighborhood like any other family. I want to see them, or any distraction. Flashlight poking across the brook into briary darkness, but they have gone, noisily. I go to bed. Fear. Unwritten books already titled. Some idiot will shoot the bears soon, it always happens, they’ll be strung up by the paws in someone’s frontyard maple to be admired and measured, and I'll be paid for work yet to be done— with a broken imagination. At last I dream. Our plum tree, little, black, twisted, gaunt in the orchard: how for a moment last spring it flowered serenely, translucently before yielding its usual summer crop of withered leaves. I waken, late, go to the window, look down to the orchard. Is middle age what makes even dreams factual? The plum is serene and bright in new moonlight, dressed in silver leaves, and nearby, in the waste of rough grass strewn in moonlight like diamond dust, what is it?—a dark shape moves, and then another. Are they ... I can’t be sure. The dark house nuzzles my knee mutely, pleading for meaty dollars. Fear. Wouldn’t it be great to write nothing at all except poems about bears?
- Bears at Raspberry Time by Hayden Carruth
1 note · View note
ma-pi-ma · 1 year
Quote
Perché parlare dell’uso della poesia? È la poesia che ci usa.
Hayden Carruth
31 notes · View notes
marimuntanya · 2 years
Link
So the version I shared on instagram was different, but some digging yielded the original published version. 
Under the Long Wind (Part III-EXCERPT)
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH
To dull the ache of love, 
To turn away from want,
To take the limits of 
One’s means, and not to flaunt
One’s pity, is what’s meant 
By being self-content
I dreamt I lived by the sea
And made my poems there
And sea-birds came to me
And stood about my chair
And in that parliament
Silent, I was content
0 notes
havingapoemwithyou · 8 months
Text
Tumblr media
scrambled eggs and whiskey by Hayden Carruth
2 notes · View notes