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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.
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
Carry
Load
Matters
Ship
Poetry
Prose
Economy
Ships
Perfect
Ill
May
Machine
Matter
Defined
Pruned
Like
Machines
Drives
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Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze.
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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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Liquor and love rescue the cloudy sense banish its despair give it a home.
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The perfect type of the man of action is the suicide.
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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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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.
William Carlos Williams
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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No opinion can be trusted even the facts may be nothing but a printer's error.
William Carlos Williams
A poem is a small machine made of words.
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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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Nothing whips my blood like verse.
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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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We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.
William Carlos Williams
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.
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The weight of love Has buoyed me up Till my head Knocks against the 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.
William Carlos Williams
The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
William Carlos Williams