William Carlos Williams
The Hunters in the Snow
1962 The over-all picture is winter Icy mountains In the background the return From the hunt it is toward evening From the left Sturdy hunters lead in Their pack the inn-sign Hanging from A
To A Friend
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen men-and The baby hard to find a father for! What will the good Father in Heaven say To the local judge if he do not solve this problem? A little
The Desolate Field
Vast and grey, the sky Is a simulacrum To all but him whose days Are vast and grey and- In the tall, dried grasses A goat stirs With nozzle searching the ground. My head
Light Hearted Author
The birches are mad with green points The wood’s edge is burning with their green, Burning, seething-No, no, no. The birches are opening their leaves one By one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold And
Poem (As the cat)
As the cat Climbed over The top of The jamcloset First the right Forefoot Carefully Then the hind Stepped down Into the pit of The empty Flowerpot
The Ivy Crown
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another, from its confinement- Or find a deeper well. Antony and Cleopatra were right; They have shown the
Spring And All
By the road to the contagious hospital Under the surge of the blue Mottled clouds driven from the Northeast-a cold wind. Beyond, the Waste of broad, muddy fields Brown with dried weeds, standing and
Overture To A Dance Of Locomotives
Men with picked voices chant the names Of cities in a huge gallery: promises That pull through descending stairways To a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet Of those coming to be carried quicken a
Romance Moderne
Tracks of rain and light linger in The spongy greens of a nature whose Flickering mountain-bulging nearer, Ebbing back into the sun Hollowing itself away to hold a lake,- Or brown stream rising and
Sympathetic Portrait Of A Child
The murderer’s little daughter Who is barely ten years old Jerks her shoulders Right and left So as to catch a glimpse of me Without turning round. Her skinny little arms Wrap themselves This
Tract
I will teach you my townspeople How to perform a funeral For you have it over a troop Of artists- Unless one should scour the world- You have the ground sense necessary. See! the
The Dance
In Breughel’s great picture, The Kermess, The dancers go round, they go round and Around, the squeal and the blare and the Tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles Tipping their bellies, (round as
Nantucket
Flowers through the window Lavender and yellow Changed by white curtains- Smell of cleanliness- Sunshine of late afternoon- On the glass tray A glass pitcher, the tumbler Turned down, by which A key is
From "Asphodel, That Greeny Flower"
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem- Save that it’s green and wooden- I come, my sweet, to sing to you. We lived long together a life filled, if
A Celebration
A middle-northern March, now as always – Gusts from the South broken against cold winds – But from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide, It moves-not into April-into a second March,
The Last Words Of My English Grandmother
There were some dirty plates And a glass of milk Beside her on a small table Near the rank, disheveled bed- Wrinkled and nearly blind She lay and snored Rousing with anger in her
Willow Poem
It is a willow when summer is over, A willow by the river From which no leaf has fallen nor Bitten by the sun Turned orange or crimson. The leaves cling and grow paler,
Complete Destruction
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, Then took her box And set fire to it In the back yard. Those fleas that escaped Earth and fire Died by the cold.
Light Hearted William
Light hearted William twirled His November moustaches And, half dressed, looked From the bedroom window Upon the spring weather. Heigh-ya! sighed he gaily Leaning out to see Up and down the street Where a
Suzanne
Brother Paul! look! -but he rushes to a different Window. The moon! I heard shrieks and thought: What’s that? That’s just Suzanne Talking to the moon! Pounding on the window With both fists: Paul!
Blizzard
Snow falls: Years of anger following Hours that float idly down- The blizzard Drifts its weight Deeper and deeper for three days Or sixty years, eh? Then The sun! a clutter of Yellow and
The Uses Of Poetry
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion presently, For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy bay, Hid deep in rushes, where at random
The Young Housewife
At ten AM the young housewife Moves about in negligee behind The wooden walls of her husband’s house. I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb To call the
To Elsie
The pure products of America Go crazy- Mountain folk from Kentucky Or the ribbed north end of Jersey With its isolate lakes and Valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves Old names And promiscuity between Devil-may-care men
The Crowd At The Ball Game
The crowd at the ball game Is moved uniformly By a spirit of uselessness Which delights them – All the exciting detail Of the chase And the escape, the error The flash of genius
The Disputants
Upon the table in their bowl In violent disarray Of yellow sprays, green spikes Of leaves, red pointed petals And curled heads of blue And white among the litter Of the forks and crumbs
The Thing
Each time it rings I think it is for Me but it is Not for me nor for Anyone it merely Rings and we Serve it bitterly Together, they and I
April Is The Saddest Month
There they were Stuck Dog and bitch Halving the compass Then when with his yip They parted Oh how frolicsome She grew before him Playful Dancing and How disconsolate He retreated Hang-dog She following
Winter Trees
All the complicated details Of the attiring and The disattiring are completed! A liquid moon Moves gently among The long branches. Thus having prepared their buds Against a sure winter The wise trees Stand
Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus
According to Brueghel When Icarus fell It was spring A farmer was ploughing His field The whole pageantry Of the year was Awake tingling Near The edge of the sea Concerned With itself Sweating
Après le Bain
I gotta Buy me a new Girdle. (I’ll buy You one) O. K. (I wish You’d wig- Gle that way For me, I’d be A happy man) I GOTTA Wig- Gle for this. (You
Youth And Beauty
I bought a dishmop – Having no daughter – For they had twisted Fine ribbons of shining copper About white twine And made a tousled head Of it, fastened it Upon a turned ash
Complaint
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road Past midnight, a dust Of snow caught In the rigid wheeltracks. The door opens. I smile, enter and Shake off the cold. Here
To Waken An Old Lady
Old age is A flight of small Cheeping birds Skimming Bare trees Above a snow glaze. Gaining and failing They are buffeted By a dark wind- But what? On harsh weedstalks The flock has
To A Friend Concerning Several Ladies
You know there is not much That I desire, a few chrysanthemums Half lying on the grass, yellow And brown and white, the Talk of a few people, the trees, An expanse of dried
A Goodnight
Go to sleep-though of course you will not – To tideless waves thundering slantwise against Strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray Dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind, Scattered and strewn
To A Poor Old Woman
munching a plum on The street a paper bag Of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good To her. They taste Good to her You can see it by
Aux Imagistes
I think I have never been so exalted As I am now by you, O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much
The Widow's Lament In Springtime
Sorrow is my own yard Where the new grass Flames as it has flamed Often before but not With the cold fire That closes round me this year. Thirtyfive years I lived with my
The Cold Night
It is cold. The white moon Is up among her scattered stars— Like the bare thighs of The Police Sergeant’s wife—among Her five children. . . No answer. Pale shadows lie upon The frosted
Heel & Toe To The End
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, He could have Gone on forever He floated At and sang And when he emerged from that One hundred eight minutes off The surface of The earth he was smiling.
This Is Just To Say
I have eaten The plums That were in The icebox And which You were probably Saving For breakfast Forgive me They were delicious So sweet And so cold
A Sort Of A Song
Let the snake wait under His weed And the writing Be of words, slow and quick, sharp To strike, quiet to wait, Sleepless. -through metaphor to reconcile The people and the stones. Compose. (No
Portrait Of A Lady
Your thighs are appletrees Whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky Where Watteau hung a lady’s Slipper. Your knees Are a southern breeze-or A gust of snow. Agh! what Sort of man
Pastoral
The little sparrows Hop ingenuously About the pavement Quarreling With sharp voices Over those things That interest them. But we who are wiser Shut ourselves in On either hand And no one knows Whether
Danse Russe
If when my wife is sleeping And the baby and Kathleen Are sleeping And the sun is a flame-white disc In silken mists Above shining trees,- If I in my north room Dance naked,
The Term
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was Rolling with the Wind slowly over And over in The street as A car drove down Upon it
The Great Figure
Among the rain And lights I saw the figure 5 In gold On a red Firetruck Moving Tense Unheeded To gong clangs Siren howls And wheels rumbling Through the dark city.
Item
This, with a face Like a mashed blood orange That suddenly Would get eyes And look up and scream War! War! Clutching her Thick, ragged coat A piece of hat Broken shoes War! War!
Approach Of Winter
The half-stripped trees Struck by a wind together, Bending all, The leaves flutter drily And refuse to let go Or driven like hail Stream bitterly out to one side And fall Where the salvias,
Muier
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life Already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm,-so lonely And with so many field mice In the long grass- And
Love Song
I lie here thinking of you:- The stain of love Is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow It eats into the leaves, Smears with saffron The horned branched the lean Heavily Against a smooth
The Late Singer
Here it is spring again And I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on his breast Has been at his cadenzas for two weeks
Berket And The Stars
A day on the boulevards chosen out of ten years of Student poverty! One best day out of ten good ones. Berket in high spirits-“Ha, oranges! Let’s have one!” And he made to snatch
The Poem
It’s all in The sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should Be a song-made of Particulars, wasps, A gentian-something Immediate, open Scissors, a lady’s Eyes-waking Centrifugal, centripetal.
The Defective Record
Cut the bank for the fill. Dump sand Pumped out of the river Into the old swale Killing whatever was There before-including Even the muskrats. Who did it? There’s the guy. Him in the
Dedication For A Plot Of Ground
This plot of ground Facing the waters of this inlet Is dedicated to the living presence of Emily Dickinson Wellcome Who was born in England; married; Lost her husband and with Her five year