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William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams

The Birds

The world begins again!
Not wholly insufflated
the blackbirds in the rain
upon the dead topbranches
of the living tree,
stuck fast to the low clouds,
notate the dawn.
Their shrill cries sound
announcing appetite
and drop among the bending roses
and the dripping grass.

#Americans #Modernism

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Autres oeuvres par William Carlos Williams...
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
Sicilian Emigrant’s Song

O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
The Poor

By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
Young Woman at a Window

She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
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The Milkmaid, by Johannes Vermeer
The Young Housewife

At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
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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
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 Catholic Bells

Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
Poem (As the Cat)

As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
The Spring Storm

The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
Arrival

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Kora in Hell: Improvisations I

Fools have big wombs. For the rest?—here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there’l...
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 . . .
El Hombre

It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
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The Artist

Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides



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