from Selected Poems. William Carlos Willams. Edited by Charles Tomlinson. New Directions. New York City NY. PS3545.I544A6 1985.
Spring and All 39
By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen
patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees
All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines—
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches—
They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind—
Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined—
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf
But now the stark dignity of
entrance—Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken
The Locust Tree in Flower (first version) 93
Among
the leaves
bright
green
of wrist—thick
tree
and old
stiff broken
branch
ferncool
swaying
loosely strung—
come May
again
white blossom
clusters
hide
to spill
their sweets
almost
unnoticed
down
and quickly
fall
The Term 125
A rumpled sheet
of brown paper
about the length
and apparent bulk
of a man was
rolling with the
wind slowly over
and over in
the street as
a car drove down
upon it and
crushed it to
the ground. Unlike
a man it rose
again rolling
withe the wind over
and over to be as
it was before.
The Defective Record 130
Cut the bank for the fill.
Dump sand
pumped out of the river
into the old swale
killing whatever was there before— including
even the muskrats. Who did it?
There's the guy.
Him in the blue shirt and
turquoise skullcap.
Level it down
for him to build a house
on to build a
house on to build a house on
to build a house
on to build a house on to ...
The Yellow Chimney 156
There is a plume
of fleshpale
smoke upon the blue
sky. The silver
rings that
strap the yellow
brick stack at
wide intervals shine
in this amber
light— not of the sun not of
the pale sun but
his born brother
the
declining season
Labrador 162
How clean these shallows
how firm these rocks stand
about which wash
the waters of the world
It is ice to this body
that unclothes its pallors
to thoughts
of an immeasurable sea,
unmarred, that as it lifts
encloses this
straining mind, these
limbs in a single gesture.
Pictures from Brueghel: II Landscape with the Fall of Icarus 238 [model]
According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring
a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry
of the year was
awake tingling
near
the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself
sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax
unsignificantly
off the coast
there was
a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning
Pictures from Brueghel: V Peasant Wedding 241
Pour the wine bridegroom
where before you die
bride is enthroned her hair
loose at her temples a head
of ripe wheat is on
the wall beside her the
guests seated at long tables
the bagpipers are ready
there is a hound under
the table the bearded Mayor
is present women in their
starched headgear are
grabbing all but the bride
hands folded in her
lap is awkwardly silent simple
dishes are being served
clabber and what not
from a trestle made of an
unhinged barn door by tow
helpers one in a red
coat a spoon in his hatband
Sunday in the Park (from Book Two) 273 [only] [reference]
I
Outside
outside myself
there is a world,
he rumbled, subject to my incursions
—a world
(to me) at rest,
which I approach
concretely—
The scene's the Park
upon the rock,
female to the city
—upon whose body Paterson instructs his thoughts
(concretely)
—late spring,
a Sunday afternoon!
–and goes by the footpath to the cliff (counting:
the proof)
himself among the others,
—treads there the same stones
on which their feet slip as they climb,
paced by their dogs!
laughing, calling to each other—