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William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams

The Thinker

My wife’s new pink slippers
have gay pompons.
There is not a spot or a stain
on their satin toes or their sides.
All night they lie together
under her bed’s edge.
Shivering I catch sight of them
and smile, in the morning.
Later I watch them
descending the stair,
hurrying through the doors
and round the table,
moving stiffly
with a shake of their gay pompons!
And I talk to them
in my secret mind
out of pure happiness.

#Americans #Modernism

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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
Blueflags

I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Willow

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.
 1
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, by Shepard Fairey
“Libertad! Igualdad! Fraternidad!”

You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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Sub Terra

WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Postlude

NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
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.
The rose is obsolete...

The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
 2
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
The Birds

The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
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
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 Tulip Bed

The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
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



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