William Carlos Williams

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 you will,
with flowers.  So that
         I was cheered
                   when I came first to know
that there were flowers also
         in hell.
                   Today
I’m filled with the fading memory of those flowers
         that we both loved,
                   even to this poor
colorless thing–
         I saw it
                   when I was a child–
little prized among the living
         but the dead see,
                   asking among themselves:
What do I remember
         that was shaped
                   as this thing is shaped?
while our eyes fill
         with tears.
                   Of love, abiding love
it will be telling
         though too weak a wash of crimson
                   colors it
to make it wholly credible.
         There is something
                   something urgent
I have to say to you
         and you alone
                   but it must wait
while I drink in
         the joy of your approach,
                   perhaps for the last time.
And so
         with fear in my heart
                   I drag it out
and keep on talking
         for I dare not stop.
                   Listen while I talk on
against time.
         It will not be
                   for long.
I have forgot
         and yet I see clearly enough
                   something
central to the sky
         which ranges round it.
                   An odor
springs from it!
         A sweetest odor!
                   Honeysuckle!  And now
there comes the buzzing of a bee!
         and a whole flood
                   of sister memories!
Only give me time,
         time to recall them
                   before I shall speak out.
Give me time,
         time.
When I was a boy
         I kept a book
                   to which, from time
to time,
         I added pressed flowers
                   until, after a time,
I had a good collection.
         The asphodel,
                   forebodingly,
among them.
         I bring you,
                   reawakened,
a memory of those flowers.
         They were sweet
                   when I pressed them
and retained
         something of their sweetness
                   a long time.
It is a curious odor,
         a moral odor,
                   that brings me
near to you.
         The color
                   was the first to go.
There had come to me
         a challenge,
                   your dear self,
mortal as I was,
         the lily’s throat
                   to the hummingbird!
Endless wealth,
         I thought,
                   held out its arms to me.
A thousand tropics
         in an apple blossom.
                   The generous earth itself
gave us lief.
         The whole world
                   became my garden!
But the sea
         which no one tends
                   is also a garden
when the sun strikes it
         and the waves
                   are wakened.
I have seen it
         and so have you
                   when it puts all flowers
to shame.
         Too, there are the starfish
                   stiffened by the sun
and other sea wrack
         and weeds.  We knew that
                   along with the rest of it
for we were born by the sea,
         knew its rose hedges
                   to the very water’s brink.
There the pink mallow grows
         and in their season
                   strawberries
and there, later,
         we went to gather
                   the wild plum.
I cannot say
         that I have gone to hell
                   for your love
but often
         found myself there
                   in your pursuit.
I do not like it
         and wanted to be
                   in heaven.  Hear me out.
Do not turn away.
I have learned much in my life
         from books
                   and out of them
about love.
         Death
                   is not the end of it.
There is a hierarchy
         which can be attained,
                   I think,
in its service.
         Its guerdon
                   is a fairy flower;
a cat of twenty lives.
         If no one came to try it
                   the world
would be the loser.
         It has been
                   for you and me
as one who watches a storm
         come in over the water.
                   We have stood
from year to year
         before the spectacle of our lives
                   with joined hands.
The storm unfolds.
         Lightning
                   plays about the edges of the clouds.
The sky to the north
         is placid,
                   blue in the afterglow
as the storm piles up.
         It is a flower
                   that will soon reach
the apex of its bloom.
         We danced,
                   in our minds,
and read a book together.
         You remember?
                   It was a serious book.
And so books
         entered our lives.
The sea!  The sea!
         Always
                   when I think of the sea
there comes to mind
         the Iliad
                   and Helen’s public fault
that bred it.
         Were it not for that
                   there would have been
no poem but the world
         if we had remembered,
                   those crimson petals
spilled among the stones,
         would have called it simply
                   murder.
The sexual orchid that bloomed then
         sending so many
                   disinterested
men to their graves
         has left its memory
                   to a race of fools
or heroes
         if silence is a virtue.
                   The sea alone
with its multiplicity
         holds any hope.
                   The storm
has proven abortive
         but we remain
                   after the thoughts it roused
to
         re-cement our lives.
                   It is the mind
the mind
         that must be cured
                   short of death’s
intervention,
         and the will becomes again
                   a garden.  The poem
is complex and the place made
         in our lives
                   for the poem.
Silence can be complex too,
         but you do not get far
                   with silence.
Begin again.
         It is like Homer’s
                   catalogue of ships:
it fills up the time.
         I speak in figures,
                   well enough, the dresses
you wear are figures also,
         we could not meet
                   otherwise.  When I speak
of flowers
         it is to recall
                   that at one time
we were young.
         All women are not Helen,
                   I know that,
but have Helen in their hearts.
         My sweet,
                   you have it also, therefore
I love you
         and could not love you otherwise.
                   Imagine you saw
a field made up of women
         all silver-white.
                   What should you do
but love them?
         The storm bursts
                   or fades!  it is not
the end of the world.
         Love is something else,
                   or so I thought it,
a garden which expands,
         though I knew you as a woman
                   and never thought otherwise,
until the whole sea
         has been taken up
                   and all its gardens.
It was the love of love,
         the love that swallows up all else,
                   a grateful love,
a love of nature, of people,
         of animals,
                   a love engendering
gentleness and goodness
         that moved me
                   and that I saw in you.
I should have known,
         though I did not,
                   that the lily-of-the-valley
is a flower makes many ill
         who whiff it.
                   We had our children,
rivals in the general onslaught.
         I put them aside
                   though I cared for them.
as well as any man
         could care for his children
                   according to my lights.
You understand
         I had to meet you
                   after the event
and have still to meet you.
         Love
                   to which you too shall bow
along with me–
         a flower
                   a weakest flower
shall be our trust
         and not because
                   we are too feeble
to do otherwise
         but because
                   at the height of my power
I risked what I had to do,
         therefore to prove
                   that we love each other
while my very bones sweated
         that I could not cry to you
                   in the act.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
         I come, my sweet,
                   to sing to you!
My heart rouses
         thinking to bring you news
                   of something
that concerns you
         and concerns many men.  Look at
                   what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in
         despised poems.
                   It is difficult
to get the news from poems
         yet men die miserably every day
                   for lack
of what is found there.
         Hear me out
                   for I too am concerned
and every man
         who wants to die at peace in his bed
                   besides.
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