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    What I'm Giving | December 1, 2014

    Edward O. Wilson: IMG Edward O. Wilson: What I'm Giving

    At Powell's, we feel the holidays are the perfect time to share our love of books with those close to us. For this special blog series, we reached... Continue »

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4 Beaverton Poetry- A to Z
1 Burnside Poetry- A to Z
2 Hawthorne Poetry- A to Z
25 Local Warehouse Anthologies- Miscellaneous International Poetry
16 Remote Warehouse Poetry- General

This title in other editions

Red Doc> (Vintage Contemporaries)


Red Doc> (Vintage Contemporaries) Cover





does not pass. Time all

but passes. Time usually

passes. Time passing and

gazing. Time has no gaze.

Time as perseverance.

Time as hunger. Time in

a natural way. Time when

you were six the day a

mountain. Mountain time.

Time I don’t remember.

Time for a dog in an alley

caught in the beam of your

flashlight. Time not a

video. Time as paper

folded to look like a

mountain. Time smeared

under the eyes of the

miners as they rattle down

into the mine. Time if you

are bankrupt. Time if you

are Prometheus. Time if

you are all the little tubes

on the roots of a gorse

plant sucking greenish

black moistures up into

new scribbled continents.

Time it takes for the postal

clerk to apply her lipstick

at the back of the post

office before the

supervisor returns. Time

it takes for a cow to tip

over. Time in jail. Time

as overcoats in a closet.

Time for a herd of turkeys

skidding and surprised on

ice. All the time that has

soaked into the walls here.

Time between the little

clicks. Time compared to

the wild fantastic silence

of the stars. Time for the

man at the bus stop

standing on one leg to tie

his shoe. Time taking

Night by the hand and

trotting off down the road.

Time passes oh boy. Time

got the jump on me yes it






COUPONS horoscopes

in a kitchen drawer he turns

up an old B&W

photograph of her posed in

dashing swim costume on

some long ago back porch.

One leg forward like a

Greek kouros a cigarette

in the other hand she

glows as a drop of water

glows in sun. She looks

sexually astute in a way

that terrifies him he puts

this aside and all at once

the grainy photograph the

early marvel of her life

flung up at him a thing

hardly believable! knocks

him to his knees. He grips

his arms and weeps. Pain

catches the whole insides

of him and wrings it.

Oddly now remembering

his grandmother’s wringer

washer silvergreen and

upright on a platform of

wet boards in her back

kitchen beside the

washing tubs. How

carefully he’d been taught

to feed a piece of dripping

cloth between the two big

lips of the rollers while

she cranked the handle

and the cloth grabbed

fforward to emerge on the

other side as a weird

compressed pane of itself.

He hadn’t known his

grandmother long or well.

She smelled of Noxzema.

Didn’t like doctors.

Believed in herbs and the

Bible. When the apostles

walked down the street

she said their shadows

would heal people. His

mother once told him a

story about her dying.

They never liked each

other hadn’t visited for

years but someone

arranged a phone call. So

there they were mother

and daughter on the

telephone separate cities

separate nights both

suffering from asthma and

so moved they couldn’t

speak. I heard her

breathing I knew what it

was his mother said. He

looks up. He’d almost

forgot about the rain.

Unloading on the roof and

squandering down the

gutters. Rain continuous

since the funeral a

wrecking rattling

bewildering Lethe-

knuckling mob of rain. A

rain with no instructions.






Mothers in summer

Mothers in winter

Mothers in autumn

Mothers in spring


Mothers at altitude

Mothers in solitude

Mothers as platitude

Mothers in spring


Mothers banking their shots

Mothers grackling their throats

Mothers dumped from their boats

In spring


Mothers as ice

Or when they are nice

No one more nice

In spring


Mothers ashamed and Ablaze and clear

At the end

As they are

As they almost all are, and then

Mothers don’t come around

Again In spring

Product Details

Carson, Anne
Anthologies-Miscellaneous International Poetry
Edition Description:
Trade paper
Vintage Contemporaries
Publication Date:

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Related Subjects

Fiction and Poetry » Anthologies » Miscellaneous International Poetry
Fiction and Poetry » Poetry » A to Z
Fiction and Poetry » Poetry » Epic
Fiction and Poetry » Poetry » Featured Titles
History and Social Science » Politics » General

Red Doc> (Vintage Contemporaries) New Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$15.95 In Stock
Product details 192 pages Vintage - English 9780307950673 Reviews:
"Review" by , “A startling picaresque unlike one might have read or imagined...[Carson’s] real inventiveness is the oddly engaging, oddly distancing story told in fragments that don’t want to end in a moral....Essential reading for poetry sophisticates.”
"Review" by , “Breathtaking....Stunning....Personal, necessary and important. Anne Carson has a history of doing unpredictable and genre-crossing things....Read this book. You’ll find it hard to forget.”
"Review" by , “A mischievous blend of genres that is difficult to classify, but a joy to read....A companion piece to the now-classic Autobiography of Red, [it] continues her effort to revive the pleasures of narrative verse, and, facing the dread of mortality, to create spaces that are suspended in time....In Red Doc>, which can [like Autobiography] be read as fiction or poetry, darkly whimsical moments abound, and they charm....Carson delights in the kinetic energies of danger and desire that drive most novels, [and] shuffles the book’s real-time narrative with memories and dreams....Her poetry lets us surrender to the moment, then it surprises with action....Since the end returns us to the beginning, in a sense, with G revisiting his mother on her deathbed, it all may as well have been a dream. Either way, it's a memorable ride.”
"Synopsis" by , **New York Magazine's Top 10 Books of 2013**

**GoodReads Reader’s Choice Award Winner**

Some years ago I wrote a book about a boy named Geryon who was red and had wings and fell in love with Herakles. Recently I began to wonder what happened to them in later life. Red Doc> continues their adventures in a very different style and with changed names.

To live past the end of your myth is a perilous thing.

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