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It's the anarchy of poverty delights me, the old yellow wooden house indented among the new brick tenements
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
House
Brick
Delights
Bricks
Anarchy
Yellow
Delight
Among
Tenements
Poverty
Wooden
More quotes by William Carlos Williams
I'll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please and it'll be good if the authentic spirit of change is on it.
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Being an art form, verse cannot be free in the sense of having no limitations or guiding principle.
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Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood's edge
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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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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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It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.
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Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
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Liquor and love rescue the cloudy sense banish its despair give it a home.
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Compose. (No ideas but in things) Invent! Saxifrage is my flower that splits the rocks.
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A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.
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The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.
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If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,-- Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?
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Divorce is the sign of knowledge in our time.
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Nothing whips my blood like verse.
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Who isn't frustrated and does not prove it by his actions - if you want to say so? But through art the psychologically maimed may become the most distinguished man of his age. Take Freud for instance.
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Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!
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[History is] a tyranny over the souls of the dead - and so the imagination of the living.
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The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.
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If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.
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To refine, to clarify, to intensify that eternal moment in which we alone live there is but a single force the imagination.
William Carlos Williams
