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.
...

This
slow
day
moves
...

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

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.
...

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

'Spring is always like what it used to be.'
Said an old Chinese man.
Rain hissed down the windows.
...

The question of geisha and sex has always been complex.
Some do, some don't. In fact, as you know, the first
geisha were men (jesters and drummers). Their risky
patter made the guests laugh. But by 1780 "geisha"
meant woman and the glamorous business of the tea
houses had been brought under government control.
Some geisha were artists and called themselves
"white". Others with nicknames like "cat" and
"tumbler" set up shacks every night on the wide
river bed, to vanish by dawn. The important
thing was, someone to yearn for. Whether the
quilt was long, or the night was too long, or
you were given this place to sleep or that
place to sleep, someone to wait for until
she is coming along and the grass is stirring,
a tomato in her palm
...

A bird flashed by as if mistaken then it
starts. We do not think speed of life.
We do not think why hate Jezebel? We
...