Poetry by William Carlos Williams (scary books to read .txt) 📕
Description
Poems is an anthology of William Carlos Williams’ poetry collections, combining The Tempers (1913), Al Que Quiere! (1917), and Sour Grapes (1921). Williams is recognized as one of the foremost poets of American Modernism. In these collections a reader may perceive Williams’ contact with and subsequent growth through and away from Imagism. The poet’s work asserts a decidedly American approach to Modernism and features highly localized diction and imagery.
William Carlos Williams was born in 1883, grew up in New Jersey, and was educated in Europe and the United States. He was friends with Hilda Doolittle “H. D.” and Ezra Pound, and through these friendships was introduced to Imagism. He eventually broke with the Imagists and invested himself instead in capturing the unique diction and linguistic intermingling of the United States, while remaining committed to the concreteness that characterizes Imagism. A practising doctor, Williams included many images of bodies, sickness, and medical care in his early poems. Williams later claimed there are “no ideas but in things,” a sentiment rooted in both his contact with Imagism and his firm sense of place.
Williams continued to read and respond to expatriate and English Modernism, culminating in his long work Paterson. In his later career Williams influenced postwar literary movements, most notably the Beat Generation. He died in 1963.
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- Author: William Carlos Williams
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These are shining topics
my townspeople but—
hardly of great moment.
I know only the bare rocks of today.
In these lies my brown sea-weed,—
green quartz veins bent through the wet shale;
in these lie my pools left by the tide—
quiet, forgetting waves;
on these stiffen white star fish;
on these I slip bare footed!
Whispers of the fishy air touch my body;
“Sisters,” I say to them.
A wind might blow a lotus petal
over the pyramids—but not this wind.
Summer is a dried leaf.
Leaves stir this way then that
on the baked asphalt, the wheels
of motor cars rush over them,—
gas smells mingle with leaf smells.
Oh, Sunday, day of worship!!!
The steps to the museum are high.
Worshippers pass in and out.
Nobody comes here today.
I come here to mingle faiance dug
from the tomb, turquoise colored
necklaces and belched wind from the
stomach; delicately veined basins
of agate, cracked and discolored and
the stink of stale urine!
Enter! Elbow in at the door.
Men? Women?
Simpering, clay fetish-faces counting
through the turnstile.
Ah!
This sarcophagus contained the body
of Uresh-Nai, priestess to the goddess Mut,
Mother of All—
Run your finger against this edge!
—here went the chisel!—and think
of an arrogance endured six thousand years
without a flaw!
But love is an oil to embalm the body.
Love is a packet of spices, a strong
smelling liquid to be squirted into
the thigh. No?
Love rubbed on a bald head will make
hair—and after? Love is
a lice comber!
Gnats on dung!
“The chisel is in your hand, the block
is before you, cut as I shall dictate:
this is the coffin of Uresh-Nai,
priestess to the sky goddess,—built
to endure forever!
Carve the inside
with the image of my death in
little lines of figures three fingers high.
Put a lid on it cut with Mut bending over
the earth, for my headpiece, and in the year
to be chosen I will rouse, the lid
shall be lifted and I will walk about
the temple where they have rested me
and eat the air of the place:
Ah—these walls are high! This
is in keeping.”
The priestess has passed into her tomb.
The stone has taken up her spirit!
Granite over flesh: who will deny
its advantages?
Your death?—water
spilled upon the ground—
though water will mount again into rose-leaves—
but you?—would hold life still,
even as a memory, when it is over.
Benevolence is rare.
Climb about this sarcophagus, read
what is writ for you in these figures,
hard as the granite that has held them
with so soft a hand the while
your own flesh has been fifty times
through the guts of oxen,—read!
“The rose-tree will have its donor
even though he give stingily.
The gift of some endures
ten years, the gift of some twenty
and the gift of some for the time a
great house rots and is torn down.
Some give for a thousand years to men of
one face, some for a thousand
to all men and some few to all men
while granite holds an edge against
the weather.
Judge then of love!”
“My flesh is turned to stone. I
have endured my summer. The flurry
of falling petals is ended. Lay
the finger upon this granite. I was
well desired and fully caressed
by many lovers but my flesh
withered swiftly and my heart was
never satisfied. Lay your hands
upon the granite as a lover lays his
hand upon the thigh and upon the
round breasts of her who is
beside him, for now I will not wither,
now I have thrown off secrecy, now
I have walked naked into the street,
now I have scattered my heavy beauty
in the open market.
Here I am with head high and a
burning heart eagerly awaiting
your caresses, whoever it may be,
for granite is not harder than
my love is open, runs loose among you!
I arrogant against death! I
who have endured! I worn against
the years!”
But it is five o’clock. Come!
Life is good—enjoy it!
A walk in the park while the day lasts.
I will go with you. Look! this
northern scenery is not the Nile, but—
these benches—the yellow and purple dusk—
the moon there—these tired people—
the lights on the water!
Are not these Jews and—Ethiopians?
The world is young, surely! Young
and colored like—a girl that has come upon
a lover! Will that do?
Limb to limb, mouth to mouth
with the bleached grass
silver mist lies upon the back yards
among the outhouses.
The dwarf trees
pirouette awkwardly to it—
whirling round on one toe;
the big tree smiles and glances
upward!
Tense with suppressed excitement
the fences watch where the ground
has humped an aching shoulder for
the ecstasy.
Ecstatic bird songs pound
the hollow vastness of the sky
with metallic clinkings—
beating color up into it
at a far edge—beating it, beating it
with rising, triumphant ardor,—
stirring it into warmth,
quickening in it a spreading change,—
bursting wildly against it as
dividing the horizon, a heavy sun
lifts himself—is lifted—
bit by bit above the edge
of things,—runs free at last
out into the open—! lumbering
glorified in full release upward—
songs cease.
In brilliant gas light
I turn the kitchen spigot
and watch the water plash
into the clean white sink.
On the grooved drain-board
to one side is
a glass filled with parsley—
crisped green.
Waiting
for the water to freshen—
I glance at the spotless floor—:
a pair of rubber sandals
lie side by side
under the wall-table,
all is in order for the night.
Waiting, with a glass in my hand
—three girls in crimson satin
pass close before me on
the murmurous background of
the crowded opera—
it is
memory playing the clown—
three vague, meaningless girls
full of smells and
the rustling sound of
cloth rubbing on cloth and
little slippers on carpet—
high-school French
spoken in a loud voice!
Parsley in a glass,
still and shining,
brings me back. I take my drink
and yawn deliciously.
I am ready for bed.
If I 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
danse naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely.
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,—
who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
There’s my things
drying in the corner:
that blue skirt
joined to the grey shirt—
I’m sick of
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