Tags
Since posting the speech by George Saunders I’ve been searching, without success for the poem he mentions by Hayden Carruth, who late in life claims he’s “mostly Love, now.” [Poem found since posting this! A kind reader copied it into the comments below]
But in that search I discovered some of the poetry which makes that proclamation so believable.
I’ll share one with you. See if you agree with me.
The Cows At Night
by Hayden Carruth –
The moon was like a full cup tonight,
too heavy, and sank in the mist
soon after dark, leaving for light
faint stars and the silver leaves
of milkweed beside the road,
gleaming before my car.
Yet I like driving at night
in summer and in Vermont:
the brown road through the mist
of mountain-dark, among farms
so quiet, and the roadside willows
opening out where I saw
the cows. Always a shock
to remember them there, those
great breathings close in the dark.
I stopped, and took my flashlight
to the pasture fence. They turned
to me where they lay, sad
and beautiful faces in the dark,
and I counted them–forty
near and far in the pasture,
turning to me, sad and beautiful
like girls very long ago
who were innocent, and sad
because they were innocent,
and beautiful because they were
sad. I switched off my light.
But I did not want to go,
not yet, nor knew what to do
if I should stay, for how
in that great darkness could I explain
anything, anything at all.
I stood by the fence. And then
very gently it began to rain.
NOTE: A reader found the poem I was looking for and kindly copied it into his comment below–thank you so much J.D Garver!
To hear Carruth read his “cow” poem click HERE
To read more of his poetry, go to POETRY.ORG.
Deborah J. Brasket 
Great poem, I had not heard of Hayden, but this quote resonates, as it is what I am, now, and have always been: “mostly Love, now.” Thanks for leading me back here. I look forward to learning more about you and your writings. Peace, Ik
Thanks, Eric. I had a great time exploring your blog this morning. That post on Watt’s “What do you desire”–wonderful.
Extraordinary. And it led me to your last post and the speech by Saunders which is also extraordinary and I sent it to my grandson who is headed for Syracuse this fall to begin college. How sweet to be reminded before its too late about regret and kindness and being all love. If you ever find the Corruth poem, let us know.
You should send your grandson this link I found today too, a cartoon illustrating Alan Watt’s advice to students–wonderful (This is why I love blogging–so many cool things I discover!)
http://erikandrulis.wordpress.com/2013/08/07/alan-watts-what-do-you-desire/
This is definitely one for me to savour thanks! It’s very beautiful and I know exactly what he means. Everyday I go to see my cows and I always end up spending much more time with them than planned and begin to think bigger.
Interestingly I posted a poem of HC’s on my blog…about a rat. I was trying to rehabilitate these amazing creatures…wrestling with my own dislike at the same time. I think HC was the only poet I could find with anything positive to say. That’s love for you 🙂
I had never heard of Carruth before Saunters speech, which as a lit major and teacher seems extraordinary. There’s so much I love about this poem, the way he describes the moon, driving at night, those “great breathings close in the dark” (aren’t we all?), and what he says about sad and beautiful. And the ending–perfect.
I’ll be checking out your blog to find that poem on rats. So glad you stopped by.
What a lovely poem. It made me tear up. Deborah, thank you for your wonderful comments on my story. I still wonder if I should have done something about her, but I always circle back to “what.” What’s intrigued me about responses is how so many see me providing an ear to Brianna, when I thought I was showing what a snot I was about her.
Yes, I loved the poem too! And I so enjoyed your story. Interesting how readers will get something you didn’t. But I think I got the fact that you were being critical of your response, your impatience, your failure to more kind, more supportive. But what you didn’t get (or maybe you as author did!) was that just pushing down the impatience, just refusing to be rude, just allowing her to vent, to chatter on about herself, express her thoughts, WAS a kindness, and may have done more good than you will ever know.
Luanne, if you ever get a chance read Saunders short story “The tenth of December.” You can read it online on his website. There’s an “excerpt” from his book and the excerpt is the story. It makes that very point. That it’s those little kindnesses that we don’t even know we’re making that make a difference. Besides that, it’s an amazing story. Enjoy.
I think Saunders may have been referring to a line in the following poem by Carruth.
The line reads: “Now I am almost entirely love.”
Testament
So often has it been displayed to us, the hourglass
with its grains of sand drifting down,
not as an object in our world
but as a sign, a symbol, our lives
drifting down grain by grain,
sifting away – I’m sure everyone must
see this emblem somewhere in the mind.
Yet not only our lives drift down. The stuff
of ego with which we began, the mass
in the upper chamber, filters away
as love accumulates below. Now
I am almost entirely love. I have been
to the banker, the broker, those strange
people, to talk about unit trusts,
annuities, CDS, IRAS, trying
to leave you whatever I can after
I die. I’ve made my will, written
you a long letter of instructions.
I think about this continually.
What will you do? How
will you live? You can’t go back
to cocktail waitressing in the casino.
And your poetry? It will bring you
at best a pittance in our civilization,
a widow’s mite, as mine has
for forty-five years. Which is why
I leave you so little. Brokers?
Unit trusts? I’m no financier doing
the world’s great business. And the sands
in the upper glass grow few. Can I leave
you the vale of ten thousand trilliums
where we buried our good cat Pokey
across the lane to the quarry?
Maybe the tulips I planted under
the lilac tree? Or our red-bellied
woodpeckers who have given us so
much pleasure, and the rabbits
and the deer? And kisses And
love-makings? All our embracings?
I know millions of these will be still
unspent when the last grain of sand
falls with its whisper. its inconsequence,
on the mountain of my love below.
Thank you!!! I am so glad you found this and shared it here. It’s lovely. I like the first 12 lines especially. I think the poem should have ended there, with those words. What follows could be been a separate poem, and almost seems to be to me. The revelations of being mostly love now seems to have dropped in the last half, at least till the last line. Hints of it of course in his desire to leave something of substance behind, in remembering the love he showed her. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it works. Anyway, the first 12 lines–perfect.
A reply long removed from your posting … But as a writer, I know there are times when different days, different mindsets get smooshed together into a single poem and we would have been better served to stop on the first day and reflect and say, “Those first 12 lines are good by themselves.”
Thank you, Craig. You are so right about how different mindsets affect our reading and our responses. Now I’m curious about your longer reply.
The first twelve lines are a strong introduction, but they’re almost entirely abstract, with talk of the hourglass as our symbol of our lives. It’s cleaner, but it’s also not very personal.
The rest of the poem becomes messy almost immediately, bringing us to concrete concepts that the author is aware of but doesn’t understand and shows us finding his way out of the woods to the love that he is, the love that he practices in his last days on earth.
The first 12 lines didn’t make me cry. The last 14 had me deeper in tears with each word.
Yes, those last 14 lines moved me deeper in tears too than the first 12, which were, as you say, mostly abstract. To me though they convey something deeper (perhaps more philosophical?) than the last 12, this wearing away of ego, of the personal, as we age, laying bare the bones, of what’s essential to each of us, if we are lucky enough to discover it. The next 14 ARE more personal, his desperate love to keep his wife safe when he’s gone, and his realization that the most he has to offer her are the memories of those deeply personal moments of their life and love-making together. I suppose the two do tie together, the abstract concept, the concrete example. Still, to me, they don’t quite mesh. But I do appreciate your coming here and leaving your thoughts, giving me a chance to revisit this again, and think about it in a new way.
It’s incredible most would overlook something so simple, whereas, others can capture the beauty in all that seems ordinary, but truly, is not. This poem makes me want to open up some of my old poetry books and rediscover poems from poets like Wordsworth and Whitman. Thanks for sharing, Deborah! Always a pleasure coming over to your blog.
Thank you for making my day. Cows beautiful and innocent! My, oh my.