Quote

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

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
Darkness
Weeds
Feet
Weed
Dark
Tall
Night
Red
Stalks
Part
Sky
Milky
Make
Seven
Dried
Blue
Lace
Moon
Stalking

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A new music is a new mind.
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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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Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze.
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Without invention nothing is well-spaced.
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A poem is a small machine made of words.
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Dissonance / (if you are interested) / leads to discovery.
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Love is that common tone shall raise his fiery head and sound his note.
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The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
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Unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line, the old will go on repeating itself with recurring deadliness
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Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!
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For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.
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Hell take curtains! Go with some show of inconvenience sit openly - to the weather as to grief. Or do you think you can shut your grief in?
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The only realism in art is of the imagination.
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Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.
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The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
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That which is possible is inevitable.
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[History is] a tyranny over the souls of the dead - and so the imagination of the living.
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The poem springs from the half spoken words of the patient.... When asked, how I have for so many years continued an equal interest in medicine and the poem, I reply that they amount for me to nearly the same thing.
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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 this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.
William Carlos Williams