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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!
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
Things
Tree
Split
Secret
Splits
Faces
Bent
Creased
House
Houses
Preconception
Light
Blank
Forked
Body
Accident
Furrowed
Ideas
Accidents
Stained
Nothing
Trees
Preconceptions
More quotes by William Carlos Williams
Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
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Dissonance / (if you are interested) / leads to discovery.
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I have never been one to write by rule, not even by my own rules.
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The pure products of America go crazy
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I think these days when there is so little to believe in——when the old loyalties——God, country, and the hope of Heaven——aren't very real, we are more dependent than we should be on our friends. The only thing left to believe in——someone who seems beautiful.
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through metaphor to reconcile the people and the stones.
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The job of the poet is to use language effectively, his own language, the only language which is to him authentic.
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Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.
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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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Empty pockets make empty heads.
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That which is possible is inevitable.
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The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
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It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.
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The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned
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I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.
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and there grows in the mind a scent, it may be, of locust blossoms whose perfume is itself a wind moving to lead the mind away.
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Among of green stiff old bright broken branch come white sweet May again
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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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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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A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.
William Carlos Williams