Raymond Carver

In all of Carver's work, I like his down to Earth, simple plain-ness. I think my favorite collection of his poems is Ultramarine. Some of my favorite poems from that, and other collections, includes:

Ultramarine: "The Author of Her Misfortune," "Shiftless," "Kafka's Watch," "The River," "Waiting," and "Simple." My favorites in these probably has to be "The River."
Where Water Comes Together with Other Water: "Romanticism" (a response to the Poem "Classicism" by Linda Gregg).
A New Path to the Waterfall: "What the Doctor Said"

"What the Doctor Said" is a great poem that Carver wrote after learning he had cancer and that it was beyond treatment. Several lines in the poem epitomize Carver's voice as simple clarity of perception. For example, not wanting to know how many lumps were on his lungs; also, not wanting the doctor to have to repeat the news. These are things that someone wouldn't necessarily recognize as being the case in the heat of events, but clearly and concisely capture the essence of the exchange. The last three lines of the poem captures neatly the irony of human behavior to act out of habit in the face of extremes: "I may even have thanked him habit being so strong".

But I think my favorite Carver poem is "The River." It is a poem about how imagination can subtly overpower us and turn familiar perceptions into something more.

Without permission, I'll recite this poem here and hope I don't get sued:

The River

I waded, deepening, into the dark water.
Evening, and the push
and swirl of the river as it closed
around my legs and held on.
Young grilse broke water.
Parr darted one way, smolt another.
Gravel turned under my boots as I edged out.
Watched by the furious eyes of king salmon.
Their immense heads turned slowly,
eyes burning with fury, as they hung
in the deep current.
They were there. I felt them there,
and my skin prickled. But
there was something else.
I braced with the wind on my neck.
Felt the hair rise
as something touched my boot.
Grew afraid at what I couldn't see.
Then of everything that filled my eyes—
that other shore heavy with branches,
the dark lip of the mountain range behind.
And this river that had suddenly
grown black and swift.
I drew breath and cast anyway.
Prayed nothing would strike.

- Raymond Carver
Ultramarine, 1986