Biography of Hayden Carruth
Grew up in Woodbury, Connecticut and was educated at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and at the University of Chicago. He lived in Johnson, Vermont for many years. Carruth taught at Syracuse University, in the Graduate Creative Writing Program, where he taught and mentored many younger poets, including Brooks Haxton and Allen Hoey. He resided with his wife, poet Joe-Anne McLaughlin Carruth near the small central New York village of Munnsville. He wrote for over sixty years. Carruth died from complications following a series of strokes.
Hayden Carruth's Works:
Carruth authored more than 30 books of poetry, four books of literary criticism, essays, a novel and two poetry anthologies. He served as editor of Poetry magazine, as poetry editor of Harper's, and as advisory editor of The Hudson Review 20 years. He was awarded a Bollingen Prize and Guggenheim and the NEA fellowships.
In 1992 he was awarded the National Book Critics Circle Award for his Collected Shorter Poems and in 1997 the National Book Award in poetry for his 1996 book Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey. Shortly after the debut of Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey, he also won the $50,000 Lannan Literary Award. His later titles include the 2001 collection of poems Doctor Jazz and a 70-minute audio CD of him reading selections from Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey and Collected Shorter Poems. Other awards with which he was honored included the Carl Sandburg Award, the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize, the Paterson Poetry Prize, the 1990 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, the Vermont Governor's Medal and the Whiting Award.
Noted for the breadth of his linguistic and formal resources, influenced by jazz and the blues, Carruth's poems are informed by his political radicalism and sense of cultural responsibility.
Many of Carruth's best-known poems are about the people and places of northern Vermont, as well as rural poverty and hardship, addressing loneliness, insanity, and death. One of his most celebrated poems is "Emergency Haying".
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Hayden Carruth Poems
I, I, I
First, the self. Then, the observing self. The self that acts and the self that watches. This The starting point, the place where the mind begins, Whether the mind of an individual or
On Being Asked To Write A Poem Against T...
Well I have and in fact more than one and I'll tell you this too
Saturday At The Border
"Form follows function follows form . . . , etc." --Dr. J. Anthony Wadlington
Scrambled Eggs And Whiskey
Scrambled eggs and whiskey in the false-dawn light. Chicago, a sweet town, bleak, God knows, but sweet. Sometimes. And
How many guys are sitting at their kitchen tables right now, one-thirty in the morning, this same time, eating a piece of pie? - that's what I wondered. A big piece of pie, because I'd just
The old man takes a nap too soon in the morning. His coffee cup grows cold.
Both of us had been close to Joel, and at Joel's death my friend had gone to the wake and the memorial service
Coming home with the last load I ride standing on the wagon tongue, behind the tractor in hot exhaust, lank with sweat,
When I Wrote A Little
poem in the ancient mode for you that was musical and had old words in it such as would never do in
Words In A Certain Appropriate Mode
It is not music, though one has tried music. It is not nature, though one has tried The rose, the bluebird, and the bear. It is not death, though one has often died.
The Afterlife: Letter To Sam Hamill
You may think it strange, Sam, that I'm writing a letter in these circumstances. I thought it strange too--the first time. But there's a misconception I was laboring under, and you
Just over the horizon a great machine of death is roaring and rearing. One can hear it always. Earthquake, starvation, the ever-
At Seventy-Five: Rereading An Old Book
My prayers have been answered, if they were prayers. I live. I'm alive, and even in rather good health, I believe. If I'd quit smoking I might live to be a hundred. Truly this is astonishing, after the poverty and pain,
The great poems of our elders in many tongues we struggled
Coming home with the last load I ride standing
on the wagon tongue, behind the tractor
in hot exhaust, lank with sweat,
my arms strung
awkwardly along the hayrack, cruciform.
Almost 5OO bales we've put up