Anne Carson Poems

Today I have not won. But who can tell it I shall win tomorrow.
So he would say to himself going down the stairs.
Then he won.

Good thing because in the smoke of the room he had found himself wagering
his grandfather's farm (which he did not own)
and forty thousand dollars cash (which he did).

Oh to tell her at once he went slapping down the sidewalk
to the nearest phone booth, 5 AM rain pelting his neck.
Hello.

Her voice sounded broken into. Where were you last night.
Dread slits his breath.
Oh no

he can hear her choosing another arrow now from the little quiver
and anger goes straight up like trees in her voice holding
his heart tall.

I only feel clean he says suddenly when I wake up with you.
The seduction of force is from below.
With one finger

the king of hell is writing her initials on the glass like scalded things.
So in travail a husband's
legend glows, sings.
...

A wife is in the grip of being.
Easy to say Why not give up on this?
But let's suppose your husband and a certain dark woman
like to meet at a bar in early afternoon.
Love is not conditional.
Living is very conditional.
The wife positions herself in an enclosed verandah across the street.
Watches the dark woman
reach out to touch his temple as if filtering something onto it.
Watches him
bend slightly towards the woman then back. They are both serious.
Their seriousness wracks her.
People who can be serious together, it goes deep.
They have a bottle of mineral water on the table between them
and two glasses.
No inebriants necessary!
When did he develop
this puritan new taste?
A cold ship

moves out of harbor somewhere way inside the wife
and slides off towards the flat grey horizon,

not a bird not a breath in sight.
...

Sunlight slows down Europeans. Look at all those
spellbound people in Seurat. Look at Monsieur,
sitting deeply. Where does a European go when he
is ‘lost in thought'? Seurat has painted that
place—the old dazzler! It lies on the other
side of attention, a long lazy boatride from here.
It is A Sunday rather than A Saturday afternoon
there. Seurat has made this clear by a special
method. "Ma méthode," he called it, rather testily,
when we asked him. He caught us hurrying through
the chill green shadows like adulterers. The
river was opening and closing its stone lips.
The river was pressing Seurat to its lips.
...

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 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.
...