Hayden Carruth
American poetry in the twentieth century accommodated many registers — the academic, the confessional, the experimental — and its practitioners often moved between the page, the classroom, and the literary press. Hayden Carruth worked across all of these spaces, bringing to each a voice shaped by decades of sustained engagement with the written word.
Born on August 3, 1921, in Waterbury, Carruth spent his life as a poet, writer, literary critic, and journalist. Writing in English, he contributed to American letters in multiple capacities, producing work that operated in the literary culture of his time rather than at a remove from it. His criticism placed him in direct conversation with the broader field, while his journalism extended his reach beyond the purely literary. He died on September 29, 2008, in Munnsville, having worked across these overlapping vocations for the better part of a century.
The formal recognition that came to Carruth over the course of his career was substantial. He received the Shelley Memorial Award, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry. He was also awarded the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, one of the more significant honors in American poetry, and ultimately received the National Book Award for Poetry — a recognition that placed him among the most formally acknowledged poets of his generation. That accumulation of honors, spanning different stages of a long career, reflects the consistency with which his work was received and assessed by the institutions and critics who shaped American literary life across the latter half of the twentieth century and into the twenty-first.
Quotes by Hayden Carruth

Any page by Paul Goodman will give you not only originality and brilliance but wisdom, that is, something to think about. He is our peculiar, urban, twentieth-century Thoreau, the quintessential American mind of our time.

A poem is not an expression, nor is it an object. Yet it somewhat partakes of both. What a poem is is never to be known, for which I have learned to be grateful.

My poems, I think, exist in a state of tension between the love of natural beauty and the fear of natural meaninglessness or absurdity.

Languagenot urged and crammed with loveis nothing, while that which is is everything.


Beauty was worthIts every sorrow, mind's fading or World's ending,As darkness covered the garden that is the earth.

I like that name, that game too, though utterly valueless, the animal in usjust sufficiently domesticated, our venomous American aggressiveness confined to balls and bats.


