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I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.
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
Eye
Pick
Picks
Misery
Compassion
Watches
Watch
Hair
Eyes
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The pure products of America go crazy
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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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But the sea which no one tends is also a garden
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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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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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The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.
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Who isn't frustrated and does not prove it by his actions - if you want to say so? But through art the psychologically maimed may become the most distinguished man of his age. Take Freud for instance.
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You have the chicken, the hen, and the rooster. The chicken goes with the hen So who is having sex with the rooster?
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Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
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beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.
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But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.
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Dissonance / (if you are interested) / leads to discovery.
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If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.
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It is difficult to get the news from poetry, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
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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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A poem is a small machine made of words.
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Love is that common tone shall raise his fiery head and sound his note.
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So different, this man And this woman: A stream flowing In a field.
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Being an art form, verse cannot be free in the sense of having no limitations or guiding principle.
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History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.
William Carlos Williams