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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.
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
Much
Envy
Twigs
Make
Quickly
Blossoms
Wings
Envious
Behinds
Bloom
Behind
Frost
Hold
Unfolding
Conspire
Hear
Sunshine
Hem
Black
Branches
Bitten
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Compose. (No ideas but in things) Invent! Saxifrage is my flower that splits the rocks.
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Poets are being pursued by the philosophers today, out of the poverty of philosophy. God damn it, you might think a man had no business to be writing, to be a poet unless some philosophic stinker gave him permission.
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The only human value of anything, writing included, is intense vision of the facts.
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The American idiom has much to offer us that the English language has never heard of
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Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
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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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When I am alone I am happy.
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Covertly the hands of a great clock go round and round! Were they to move quickly and at once the whole secret would be out and the shuffling of all ants be done forever.
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Most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them
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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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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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There's nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made of words.
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Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.
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And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.
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Liquor and love rescue the cloudy sense banish its despair give it a home.
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