Goodybe beautiful Hayden Carrut,
a profoundly original and profoundly American poet
in the best sense of all those terms.

Very sad news. Readers might like to check out W.S. DiPiero's recent memoir of Carruth, "Cook the Hell Out of 'Em," from the summer issue of Poetry.

I had a chance to meet Mr. Carruth in 2005 at Syracuse University where he used to teach. I used to work for Poetry and he asked me, "How much did they get?" And I laughed and said how much. And he shot a cold look and said, "They're ruined." In 1987, he was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Rita Dove won.

Carruth solved the riddle of how an anthologist should include his or her own work more graciously than anybody I know of, in that magnificent anthology "The Voice That Is Great Within Us."

Hayden will be deeply missed by many of us. His poems "were acts of love. I mean deeply felt gestures which continuously bestow upon us/ What we are." including this one from Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey. :

Prepare
“Why don’t you write me a poem that will prepare me for your death?” you said.
It was a rare day here in our climate, bright and sunny. I didn’t feel like dying that day,
I didn’t even want to think about it—my lovely knees and bold shoulders broken open,
Crawling with maggots. Good Christ! I stood at the window and I saw a strange dog
Running in the field with its nose down, sniffing the snow, zigging and zagging,
And whose dog is that? I asked myself. As if I didn’t know. The limbs of the apple trees
Were lined with snow, making a bright calligraphy against the world, messages to me
From an enigmatic source in an obscure language. Tell me, how shall I decipher them?
And a jay slanted down to the feeder and looked at me behind my glass and squawked.
Prepare, prepare. Fuck you, I said, come back tomorrow. And here he is in this new
gray and gloomy morning.
We’re back to our normal weather. Death in the air, the idea of death settling around
us like mist,
And I am thinking again in despair, in desperation, how will it happen? Will you wake up
Some morning and find me lying stiff and cold beside you in our bed? How atrocious!
Or will I fall asleep in the car, as I nearly did a couple of weeks ago, and drive off the
                                    road
Into a tree? The possibilities are endless and not at all fascinating, except that I can’t
                                    stop
Thinking about them, can’t stop envisioning that moment of hideous violence.
Hideous and indescribable as well, because it won’t happen until it’s over. But not for
                                    you.
For you it will go on and on, thirty years or more, since that’s the distance between us
In our ages. The loss will be a great chasm with no bridge across it (for we both know
Our life together, so unexpected, is entirely loving and rare). Living on your own—
Where will you go? What will you do? And the continuing sense of displacement
From what we’ve had in this little house, our refuge on our green or snowbound
Hill. Life is not easy and you will be alive. Experience reduces itself to platitudes
                                    always,
Including the one which says that I’ll be with you forever in your memories and
                                    dreams.
I will. And also in hundreds of keepsakes, such as this scrap of a poem you are reading
                                    now.

I'm so sorry to read this, and grateful to have known of him and his work. Hayden's poem about my grandfather ("Marshall Washer") is, unsurprisingly, my all-time favorite.

I had the great good fortune to work with Hayden as a grad student in poetry-- he was a true man of letters, a gentle man disguised as a curmudgeon, and I cherish the time i spent in his presence, basking in his intellect and knowledge...

I just heard that Vermont Public Radio is doing a jazz tribute to Hayden Carruth tonight (10/3/08) at 10 p.m. ET. You can listen online.

I screwed up -- the jazz tribute to Carruth is at 9 p.m. ET.

Jason

Hayden and my father, Henry Rago 1915-1969) were great friends. I had the benefit of phone conversations and letters with Hayden in recent years back and forth to complete a "Collected Poems of Henry Rago" I edited. Hayden hoped I would find a publisher for the book and wrote a fine introduction to it. One could never have a truer friend than Hayden and his friendship to my father extended through the years to me, finding such love for our project together that I still feel it now, fierce and strong, as he pushed me to work. He was such a natural force though. His literary gifts were shared with all of us in a spirit of generosity and deep understanding.