Anne Carson Poems

After your death.
It was windy every day.
Every day.
Opposed us like a wall.
...

Isaiah awoke angry.
Lapping at Isaiah's ears black birdsong no it was anger.
God had filled Isaiah's ears with stingers.
...

Hanging on the daylight black.
As an overcoat with no man in it one cold bright.
Noon the Demander was waiting for me.
...

Major things are wind, evil, a good fighting horse,
prepositions, inexhaustible love, the way people
choose their king. Minor things include dirt,
the names of schools of philosophy, mood and
not having a mood, the correct time. There
are more major things than minor things
overall, yet there are more minor things
than I have written here, but it is
disheartening to list them. When I
think of you reading this I do not
want you to be taken captive,
separated by a wire mesh lined with glass
from your life itself, like some Elektra.
...

A mythical animal, the vicuña fares well
in the volcanic regions of northern Peru.
Light thunders down on it, like Milton
at his daughters. Hear that?—they
are counting under their breath.
Think about style of life for a
moment. When you take up your
axe, listen. Hoofbeats. Wind.
It is they who make us at home
here, not the other way around.
...

In haiku there are various sorts of expressions
about trout—"autumn trout" and "descending
trout" and "rusty trout" are some I have heard.
"Descending trout" and "rusty trout" are trout
that have laid their eggs. Worn out, completely
exhausted, they are going down to the sea. Of
course there were occasionally trout that spent
the winter in deep pools. These were called
"remaining trout."
...

A bad trick. Ghastly mistake. Downright
dishonesty. These are the views of Braque.
Why? Braque rejected perspective. Why?
Someone who spends his life drawing profiles
will end up believing that man has one eye,
Braque felt. Braque wanted to take full
possession of objects. He has said as much
in published interviews. Watching the small
shiny planes of the landscape recede out of
his grasp filled Braque with loss. So he
smashed them. "Nature morte," said Braque.
...

With small cuts Cro-Magnon man recorded
the moon's phases on the handles of his
tools, thinking about her as he worked.
Animals. Horizon. Face in a pan of
water. In every story I tell comes
a point where I can see no further.
I hate that point. It is why they
call storytellers blind—a taunt.
...

She ran in.
Wet corn.
Yellow braid.
Down her back.
...

Their faces I thought were knives.
The way they pointed them at me.
And waited.
...