Poeticous Logo
es
English Español Français Italiano
William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams

Arrival

And yet one arrives somehow,
finds himself loosening the hooks of
her dress
in a strange bedroom—
feels the autumn
dropping its silk and linen leaves
about her ankles.
The tawdry veined body emerges
twisted upon itself
like a winter wind . . .!

#Americans #Modernism

¿Disfrutate esta lectura? ¡invítanos a un café!.
Tu ayuda nos permite existir.
Otras obras de William Carlos Williams...
Blizzard

Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Between Walls

the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
Overture to a Dance of Locomotives

Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
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… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
It Is a Small Plant

It is a small plant delicately branched and tapering conically to a point, each branch and the peak a wire for
Thursday

I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
 1
To a Friend Concerning Several Ladies

You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
 1
Great Mullen

One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
Memory of April

You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
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
Children’s Games

This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
On poems as machines made out of words

To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...
The Parable of the Blind

This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
 1
Primrose

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
A man dancing with a dog, by Unknown artist
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
 3



Arriba