Receive LOVE in your mailbox

Try our weekly newsletter with amazing tips to bring and retain love in your life

Carrie Fountain’s Poems Will Brighten Up Your January

Today, we will be celebrating some of the best poems by Carrie Fountain. We hope you will enjoy reading them just as much as I did curating them for you.

Suggested read: Odes That Will Fill You With Love For Poetry

Best poems by Carrie Fountain

  1. Burn Lake

For Burn Construction Company

When you were building the i-10 bypass, 

one of   your dozers, moving earth 

at the center of a great pit, 

slipped its thick blade beneath 

the water table, slicing into the earth’s 

wet palm, and the silt moistened 

beneath the huge thing’s tires, and the crew 

was sent home for the day. 

Next morning, water filled the pit. 

Nothing anyone could do to stop it coming. 

It was a revelation: kidney-shaped, deep 

green, there between the interstate 

and the sewage treatment plant. 

When nothing else worked, you called it 

a lake and opened it to the public. 

And we were the public.

  1. Eating the Avocado

Now I know that I’ve never described

anything, not one single thing, not

the flesh of the avocado which darkens

so quickly, though if you scrape

what’s been exposed to the air it’s new-green

beneath like nothing ever happened.

I want to describe this evening, though

it’s not spectacular. The baby babbling

in the other room over the din

and whistle of a football game, and now

the dog just outside the door, scratching,

rattling the tags on her collar, the car

going by, far away but loud, a car without

a muffler, and the sound of the baby

returning again, pleasure and weight.

I want to describe the baby. I want to describe

the baby for many hours to anyone

who wishes to hear me. My feelings for her

take me so far inside myself I can see the pure

holiness in motherhood, and it makes me

burn with success and fear, the hole her

coming has left open, widening. Last night

we fed her some of the avocado I’ve just

finished eating while writing this poem.

Her first food. I thought my heart might burst,

knowing she would no longer be made

entirely of me, flesh of my flesh. Startled

in her amusing way by the idea of eating,

she tried to take it in, but her mouth

pushed it out. And my heart did burst. 

  1. Four Months Old

All the baby knows

is the flop of her limbs


and the milky blue vein

of sleep and the parking lot


of her animal fear,

the cars left there overnight,


windshields dark and thick

with dew. The rest is


completely unknown,

the complete darkness


of her white room,

where she sleeps


on a clean sheet

printed with baby


crocodiles and lions

wearing diapers.

Suggested read: #NaPoWriMo Steve Kowit And His Best Poems 

  1. In the distant past

Things weren’t very specific

when I was in labor,

yet everything was

there, suddenly: all that

my body had known,

even things I’d only been

reminded of occasionally,

as when a stranger’s scent

had reminded me

of someone I’d known

in the distant past. The few

men I’d loved but didn’t

marry. The time, living

alone in Albuquerque,

when I fainted in the kitchen

one morning before work

and woke up on the floor,

covered in coffee. Finally.

it was coming. It was all moving

forward. Finally, it was all going

to pass through me. It was

beginning to happen

and it was all going to happen

in one single night.

No more lingering

in the adolescent pools

of memory, no more giving it

a little more time to see

if things would get better

or worse. No more moving

from one place to the next.

Finally, my body was all

that had ever been given

to me, it was all I had,

and I sweated through it

in layers, so that when,

in the end, I was finally

standing outside myself

and watching, I could see

that what brought me

into the world was pulling

you into the world,

and I could see that my body

was giving you up

and giving you to me,

and where in my body

there were talents, there

were talents, and where

there were no talents,

there would be scars.

  1. Surprise

I don’t want to teach you anything

or show you my wound or have you taste

the amazing thing I made this morning

with only what we had left in the fridge

before you came home with new groceries.

I’m as tired as you are of genius. Hey,

do you know where we put the sky?

I haven’t seen it for months.

When I was in New Mexico last week

all I did was push the baby in her stroller

and worry about the sun on her legs

and think about coming home. Now

I’m home and I’m thinking of the way

the light came in off the runway

while I was waiting in the airport

for the return flight, feeding the baby

a hundred Cheerios, one by one, thinking,

I don’t even know how to visit New Mexico

anymore, thinking, I guess there isn’t going to be

a time when I live like I lived that summer

in Santa Fe, that summer-into-fall

I’ve for so long told myself I will someday

return to, that place I’ve kept, that ace

in the hole, that life with mornings

and afternoons that I am still holding back

with the very tip of my fingernail. After all,

this afternoon is the afternoon I’ve been

waiting for all my life: running

the vacuum over the rugs while you walk

the baby around the block and my breasts

heat and tingle as they fill again with milk

and someone with the wrong number

calls my cell again and again, refusing

to take there is no Phillip here for an answer.

This is, after all, the exact life I take with me

to bed each night, digging deeper and deeper

into its blood-dark soil, waking some mornings

from dreams that shake me and leave me

with a thirst for the past or the future,

a distance I can never reach—dreams

of a house I don’t recognize but know

I have lived in all my life, someone

I’ve never seen saying, Reach under

your shoulder blade and feel with your fingers

the place where I pierced you. Oh,

that summer: Why did I have to leave it

cracked open behind me as I went? How

did I even do that? How did I get that

one sky to stay wedged there, blue as the sky

and just as big?

  1. Yes

I am done smoking cigarettes, done waiting tables, done counting tips

at two a.m. in the neon-dark dance hall, done sleeping with young men

in my apartment, done facing them or not, thinking of oblivion, which

is better than nothing. I am done not wearing underwear because

it’s so Victorian. I am done telling men I don’t wear underwear because

it’s so Victorian. I am done with the night a guy spread my legs

on a pool table, all those balls piled up in the pockets. I am done.

I am never going back. When I see that night on the street I will

drive past and never even glance over. I am done going to grad school,

nodding in your workshop. I am done teaching English as a second

language, saying I pointing to my chest, saying you pointing to them.

I am done teaching the poetry class where no one talked and no one

listened to me and outside the window the cottonwood wagged

its sun-white leaves in the breeze as if to say, I give up, I give up. I am done

being a childless woman, a childless wife, a woman with no scars

on her body. I am done with the wide afternoons of before, the long

stare, the tightly closed door. And I am done, too, for the most part,

with the daydream of after. I am after for now. I am turning up the heater

to see if that will make the baby sleep another fifteen minutes

so I can finish this poem. I am done thinking of the past as if it had

survived, though sometimes I think of the past and sometimes I see it

coming, catching up, hands caked with dried mud, head shaved clean.

Suggested read: #NaPoWriMo 8 Best Poems By Sara Teasdale

This is all we have on today’s post on the Best Poems by Carrie Fountain. This is, however, not an exhaustive list, and if we have missed out on some of your favorites, then please feel free to add them in the comment section below.

Until next time!

Featured image source: Instagram

Article Name
#NaPoWriMo Here Are Some Of The Best poems By Carrie Fountain
In today’s #NaPoWriMo post, we will be celebrating some of the best poems by Carrie Fountain. We hope you will enjoy reading them.
Riya Roy

Riya Roy

“If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster.” This Isaac Asimov line, embraces my love for writing in the finest and most desperate way that it is and should be! I was tormented by the earnestness of the written word not very early in my journey. But once smitten, it has helped me devour life twice over; savoring the moment and indulging in its memories. As a flâneuse, I wander to understand the intricacies of human relationships. Realizing that, they are just different manifestations of the same feeling of love, has been my greatest learning. I seek to share its opulence through the words I type.