Quote

Outside, the north wind, coming and passing, swelling and dying, lifts the frozen sand drives it a-rattle against the lidless windows and we may dear sit stroking the cat stroking the cat and smiling sleepily, prrrr.

William Carlos Williams

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William Carlos Williams
Age: 79 †
Born: 1883
Born: September 17
Died: 1963
Died: March 4
Autobiographer
Literary Critic
Physician
Physician Writer
Poet
Writer
Passing
Windows
Dear
Drives
Window
Frozen
Outside
Passings
Sleepily
Dying
Lifts
Stroking
Wind
Sand
Rattle
Coming
North
Swelling
May
Cat
Smiling

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Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait, sleepless. - through metaphor to reconcile the people and the stones. Compose. (No ideas but in things) Invent! Saxifrage is my flower that splits the rocks.
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First we have to see. Or first we have to be taught to see. We have to be taught to see here, because here is everywhere, related to everywhere else, and if we don't see, hear, taste, smell and feel in this place - not only will we never know anything but the world of sense will be by that much diminished everywhere.
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Empty pockets make empty heads.
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A poem is a small machine made of words. . .Its movement is intrinsic, undulant, a physical more than a literary character.
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The job of the poet is to use language effectively, his own language, the only language which is to him authentic.
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As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.
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By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast - a cold wind.
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Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse-- at least, blinded by the light, young love is.
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Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze. Gaining and failing they are buffeted by a dark wind - But what? On harsh weedstalks the flock has rested - the snow is covered with broken seed husks and the wind tempered with a shrill piping of plenty.
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Death will be too late to bring us aid.
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But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi.
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But the sea which no one tends is also a garden
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I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.
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so much depends upon a red wheel barrow
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Prose may carry a load of ill-defined matters like a ship. But poetry is the machine which drives it, pruned to a perfect economy.
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It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you
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A poem is a small machine made out of words.
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Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.
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all to no end save beauty the eternal-- So in detail they, the crowd, are beautiful
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