North Winter

Hayden Carruth

North Winter, a long poem in fifty-seven parts and a poetic afterward, is something of an unexpected delight in the Carruth corpus. One assumes one is going to get the usual nature poetry, and for the most part one does. But something always seems a little off in this one. It is. But figuring out what it is is impossible until Carruth broadsides you at the closing of the postscript (at which point it all makes sense).

There's no real use in pontificating on the poetic merit; this is Hayden Carruth. The poetic merit is unquestionable. In the fifty-seven small pieces that make up the whole, Carruth veers from formal poetry to calligrammes to free verse and just about everywhere in between. Might as well just sit back and enjoy the ride.

“The dog flies with his ears
across the snow carrying a
deer's legbone in his jaws
the bone flops threejointedly
and the little hoof dances
delicately in the snow.” (--”21”)

If anything, it could probably have been distilled a little better. But it's still vintage, and good, Carruth, and well worth seeking out.