Recently I have been thinking a lot about Raymond Carver, my favourite poet.
He died in 1988, aged just 50. Having beaten alcoholism, it seems somehow even sadder that he died from lung cancer.
Many of his poems feel like brief moments of illumination, fragmentary epiphanies; or fleeting hints of unfiltered emotions.
They are how it feels when you stop and everything goes quiet, and for a second you know that this is just how it is.
This is one of my favourites:
So early it's still almost dark out. I'm near the window with coffee, and the usual early morning stuff that passes for thought. When I see the boy and his friend walking up the road to deliver the newspaper. They wear caps and sweaters, and one boy has a bag over his shoulder. They are so happy they aren't saying anything, these boys. I think if they could, they would take each other's arm. It's early in the morning, and they are doing this thing together. They come on, slowly. The sky is taking on light, though the moon still hangs pale over the water. Such beauty that for a minute death and ambition, even love, doesn't enter into this. Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.