American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Poetry

Raymond Carver

A crow flew into the tree outside my window. It was not Ted Hughes’s crow, or Galway’s crow. Or Frost’s, Pasternak’s, or Lorca’s crow. Or one of Homer’s crows, stuffed with gore, after the battle. This was just a crow. That never fit in anywhere in its life, or did anything worth mentioning. It sat… Continue reading Raymond Carver

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Poetry

Raymond Carver

Fear Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive. Fear of falling asleep at night. Fear of not falling asleep. Fear of the past rising up. Fear of the present taking flight. Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night. Fear of electrical storms. Fear of the cleaning woman who… Continue reading Raymond Carver

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Raymond Carver

In the motel room that night, in the early morning hours, he opened a curtain. Saw clouds banked against the moon. He leaned closer to the glass. Cold air passed through and put its hand over his heart. I loved you, he thought. Loved you well. Before loving you no longer. — Raymond Carver, from… Continue reading Raymond Carver

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Raymond Carver

I remember the morning I closed the lid on memory and turned the handle. Locking it away forever. Nobody knows what happened to me out here, sea. Only you and I know. At night, clouds form in front of the moon. By morning they’re gone. And that sweet light I spoke of? That’s gone too.… Continue reading Raymond Carver

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American Culture · American Literature · Anthology · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry

Raymond Carver

There isn’t enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance, prevails. — Raymond Carver, from “The Author of Her Misfortune,” All of Us: The Collected Poems. (Vintage; Reprint edition, April 4, 1996) Originally published 1988.

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