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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.
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
May
Perfume
Mind
Scent
Lead
Whose
Wind
Grows
Moving
Locust
Away
Blossoms
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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
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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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So different, this man And this woman: A stream flowing In a field.
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By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast - a cold wind.
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Poe gives the sense for the first time in America, that literature is serious, not a matter of courtesy but of truth.
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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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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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I think of the poetry of René Char and all he must have seen and suffered that has brought him to speak only of sedgy rivers, of daffodils and tulips whose roots they water, even to the free-flowing river that laves the rootlets of those sweet-scented flowers that people the milky way
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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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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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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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The only realism in art is of the imagination.
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You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.
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There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.
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all to no end save beauty the eternal-- So in detail they, the crowd, are beautiful
William Carlos Williams
Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.
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The pure products of America go crazy
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The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.
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It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.
William Carlos Williams