poem by Raymond Carver<\/p>\n
All day he\u2019d been working like a locomotive.
\nI mean he was painting, the brush strokes
\ncoming like clockwork. Then he called
\nhome. And that was that. That was all she
\nwrote. He shook like a leaf. He started
\nsmoking again. He lay down and got back
\nup. Who could sleep if your woman sneered
\nand said time was running out? He drove
\ninto town. But he didn\u2019t go drinking.
\nNo, he went walking. He walked past a mill
\ncalled \u201cthe mill\u201d. Smell of fresh-cut
\nlumber, lights everywhere, men driving
\njitneys and forklifts, driving themselves.
\nLumber piled to the top of the warehouse,
\nthe whine and groan of machinery. Easy
\nenough to recollect, he thought. He went
\non, rain falling now, a soft rain that wants
\nto do its level best not to interfere
\nwith anything and in return asks only
\nthat it not be forgotten. The painter
\nturned up his collar and said to himself
\nhe wouldn\u2019t forget. He came to a lighted
\nbuilding where, inside a room, men played
\ncards at a big table. A man wearing
\na cap stood at the window and looked
\nout through the rain as he smoked
\na pipe. That was an image he didn\u2019t
\nwant to forget either, but then
\nwith his next thought he
\nshrugged. What was the point?<\/p>\n
He walked on until he reached the jetty
\nwith its rotten pilings. Rain fell
\nharder now. It hissed as it struck
\nthe water. Lightning came and went.
\nLightning broke across the sky
\nlike memory, like revelation. Just
\nwhen he was at the point of despair,
\na fish came up out of the dark
\nwater under the jetty and then fell back
\nand then rose again in a flash
\nto stand on its tail and shake itself!
\nThe painter could hardly credit
\nhis eyes, or his ears! He\u2019d just
\nhad a sign \u2013 faith didn\u2019t enter
\ninto it. The painter\u2019s mouth flew
\nopen. By the time he\u2019d reached home
\nhe\u2019d quit smoking and vowed never
\nto talk on the telephone again.
\nHe put on his smock and picked up
\nhis brush. He was ready to begin
\nagain, but he didn\u2019t know if one
\ncanvas could hold it all. Never
\nmind. He\u2019d carry it over
\nonto another canvas if he had to.
\nIt was all or nothing. Lightning, water,
\nfish, cigarettes, cards, machinery,
\nthe human heart, that old port.
\nEven the woman\u2019s lips against
\nthe receiver, even that.
\nThe curl of her lip.<\/p>\n
Published by William B. Ewert, Concord, NH, 1988.<\/p>\n
Source: https:\/\/ilpittoreeilpesce.wordpress.com\/02-the-painter-and-the-fish\/, 06\/11\/2025<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
poem by Raymond Carver All day he\u2019d been working like a locomotive. I mean he was painting, the brush strokes coming like clockwork. Then he called home. And that was that. That was all she wrote. He shook like a leaf. He started smoking again. He lay down and got back up. Who could sleep… (read more<\/a>)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-15678","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artificialis.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/15678","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artificialis.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artificialis.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artificialis.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artificialis.eu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=15678"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.artificialis.eu\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/15678\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artificialis.eu\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=15678"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}