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The Bearer

By Hayden Carruth 1921–2008 Hayden Carruth

Like all his people he felt at home in the forest.

The silence beneath great trees, the dimness there,

The distant high rustling of foliage, the clumps

Of fern like little green fountains, patches of sunlight,

Patches of moss and lichen, the occasional

Undergrowth of hazel and holly, was he aware

Of all this? On the contrary his unawareness

Was a kind of gratification, a sense of comfort

And repose even in the strain of running day

After day. He had been aware of the prairies.

He had known he hated the sky so vast, the wind

Roaring in the grasses, and the brightness that

Hurt his eyes. Now he hated nothing; nor could he

Feel anything but the urgency that compelled him

Onward continually. "May I not forget, may I

Not forget," he said to himself over and over.

When he saw three ravens rise on their awkward

Wings from the forest floor perhaps seventy-five

Ells ahead of him, he said, "Three ravens,"

And immediately forgot them. "May I not forget,"

He said, and repeated again in his mind the exact

Words he had memorized, the message that was

Important and depressing, which made him feel

Worry and happiness at the same time, a peculiar

Elation. At last he came to his people far

In the darkness. He smiled and spoke his words,

And he looked intently into their eyes gleaming

In firelight. He cried when they cried. No rest

For his lungs. He flinched and lay down while they

Began to kill him with clubs and heavy stones.

Hayden Carruth, “The Bearer” from Collected Shorter Poems, 1946-1991. Copyright © 1992 by Hayden Carruth. Reprinted with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P. O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.coppercanyonpress.org.

Source: Poetry (October 1987).

Biography

"Now and then a poet comes along whose work ranges across wide and diverse territories of form, attitude, and emotion—yet with the necessary intelligence that belies a deep, lifelong engagement with tradition—so that variance never seems mere experimentation or digression, but improvisation," wrote Midwest Quarterly contributor Matthew Miller. "Hayden Carruth is such an artist."

The National Book Award won by Carruth in 1996 . . .

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