Quote

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.

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
Weight
Roses
Flower
Steel
Waiting
Carried
Sense
Edge
Makes
Romantic
Petal
Love
Edges
Copper
Somewhere
Petals
Rose
Waits

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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.
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It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
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My first poem was a bolt from the blue … it broke a spell of disillusion and suicidal despondence. ... it filled me with soul satisfying joy.
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If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,-- Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?
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Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge
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Minds like beds always made up (more stony than a shore) unwilling or unable.
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There's nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made of words.
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Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red firetruck moving tense unheeded to gong clangs siren howls and wheels rumbling through the dark city.
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O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.
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Dissonance / (if you are interested) / leads to discovery.
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Nothing whips my blood like verse.
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We sit and talk quietly, with long lapses of silence, and I am aware of the stream that has no language, coursing beneath the quiet heaven of your eyes, which has no speech.
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Lifeless in appearance, sluggish dazed spring approaches They enter the new world naked, cold, uncertain of all save that they enter.
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through metaphor to reconcile the people and the stones.
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It's the anarchy of poverty delights me, the old yellow wooden house indented among the new brick tenements
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Love is that common tone shall raise his fiery head and sound his note.
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A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.
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I thought my friends were damn fools, because they didn't know any better way of conducting their lives. Still they conformed better than I to a code. I wanted to conform but I couldn't so I wrote my poetry.
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The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.
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