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Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.
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
Thighs
Breeze
Southern
Lust
Knees
Touch
Whose
Blossoms
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We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.
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The Moon, the dried weeds and the Pleiades - Seven feet tall the dark, dried weed stalks make a part of the night a red lace on the milky blue sky
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Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge
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Without invention nothing is well-spaced.
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Love is that common tone shall raise his fiery head and sound his note.
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By listening to his language of his locality the poet begins to learn his craft. It is his function to lift, by use of imagination and the language he hears, the material conditions and appearances of his environment to the sphere of the intelligence where they will have new currency.
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Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.
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In summer, the song sings itself.
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Sunshine of late afternoon-- On the glass tray a glass pitcher, the tumbler turned down, by which a key is lying--And the immaculate white bed
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I tried to put a bird in a cage. O fool that I am! For the bird was Truth. Sing merrily, Truth: I tried to put Truth in a cage!
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Compose. (No ideas but in things) Invent! Saxifrage is my flower that splits the rocks.
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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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Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.
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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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Empty pockets make empty heads.
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Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.
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Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentities stirs me to it: colored women day workers- old and experienced- returning home at dusk, in cast off clothing faces like old Florentine oak.
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The pure products of America go crazy
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so much depends upon a red wheel barrow
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Most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them
William Carlos Williams
