Quote

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.

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
Upon
Glazed
Water
Beside
White
Wheel
Much
Chickens
Wheels
Red
Rain
Barrow
Depends
Wheelbarrows

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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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Among of green stiff old bright broken branch come white sweet May again
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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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The War is the first and only thing in the world today. The arts generally are not, nor is this writing a diversion from that for relief, a turning away. It is the war or part of it, merely a different sector of the field.
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The only human value of anything, writing included, is intense vision of the facts.
William Carlos Williams
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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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Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse-- at least, blinded by the light, young love is.
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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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Sometimes I find myself thinking, rather wistfully, about Lao Tzu's famous dictum: 'Govern a great nation as you would cook a small fish.' All around me I see something very different, let us say - a number of angry dwarfs trying to grill a whale.
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Each speech having its own character, the poetry it engenders will be peculiar to that speech also in its own intrinsic form. The effect is beauty, what in a single object resolves our complex feelings of propriety.
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The only realism in art is of the imagination.
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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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The pure products of America go crazy
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It's the anarchy of poverty delights me, the old yellow wooden house indented among the new brick tenements
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What can any of us do with his talent but try to develop his vision, so that through frequent failures we may learn better what we have missed in the past.
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Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait, sleepless. - through metaphor to reconcile the people and the stones. Compose. (No ideas but in things) Invent! Saxifrage is my flower that splits the rocks.
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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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We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.
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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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O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.
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