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Raymond Carver - Stupid

It's what the kids nowadays call weed. And it drifts
like clouds from his lips. He hopes no one
comes along tonight, or calls to ask for help.
Help is what he's most short on tonight.
A storm thrashes outside. Heavy seas
with gale winds from the west. The table he sits at
is, say, two cubits long and one wide.
The darkness in the room teems with insight.
Could be he'll write an adventure novel. Or else 
a children's story. A play for two female characters,
one of whom is blind. Cutthroat should be coming
into the river. One thing he'll do is learn
to tie his own flies. Maybe he should give
more money to each of his surviving
family members. The ones who already expect a little
something in the mail first of each month.
Every time they write they tell him
they're coming up short. He counts heads on his fingers
and finds they're all survivng. So what
if he'd rather be remembered in the dreams of strangers?
He raises his eyes to the skylights where rain
hammers on. After a while --
who knows how long? -- his eyes ask
that they be closed. And he closes them.
But the rain keeps hammering. Is this a cloudburst?
Should he do something? Secure the house
in some way? Uncle Bo stayed married to Aunt Ruby for 47 years. Then hanged himself.
He opens his eyes again. Nothing adds up.
It all adds up. How long will this storm go on?

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Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 565 times | Comments and analysis of Stupid by Raymond Carver Comments (3)

Stupid - Comments and Information

Poet: Raymond Carver
Poem: Stupid
Volume: Ultramarine
Poem of the Day: Mar 3 2007

Comment 3 of 3, added on April 24th, 2012 at 12:40 AM.
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It is a very tricky quteoisn. I think once you decide to become a writer, you are always condemned to be a writer, no matter what your output is. For the simple reason that you tend to think and look at everything from the perspective of a writer, be it tragic events in your life or comic incidents, whatever. There is no respite from this mask of being writer and over time this mask becomes your face. There could be various reasons for one not putting down to paper his mental thoughts. Call it permanent procrastination or your inhibition but it does happen.But I would emphasize here that whoever wants to be introduced as a writer has to at least write something. May be he or she does not write regularly, but he has to create something to be eligible for this status. This is my humble opinion. tks

Raka from Antigua and Barbuda
Comment 2 of 3, added on April 17th, 2008 at 9:28 PM.

this is clearly about a troubled boy who has yet to become a man but is faced with the all the responsibilities of being a man. maybe even more responsibilities than most of us will ever face. he has already turned to pot to escape the storm mentioned at the end (which is not the rain by the way) and is now pondering killing himself to escape it. it is perhaps the one of the most depressing poems i've ever read.

evan from United States
Comment 1 of 3, added on August 27th, 2004 at 1:43 AM.

The racing of thoughts when accompanied by solitude. This may be all that we ever experience during such times. These descriptions are beautifully amplified through the direct and honest approach of R. Carver.

adrienne m. hribko

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