Thursday, 27 of November of 2014

William Carlos Williams – Light Hearted Author


 
 
 
 
Today is the birthday of an important warriorpoet ancestor; his sense of presence in arrangement of words makes it as though, clear as day, we sit right next to him watching him watch the world, pen in hand working the next verse…

So today to honor his birthday here’s some hours of skimming through most of his poems. And of all these poems, what’s way more than just the power of image that he’s famous for is the power of place, the rootedness to the land and its seasons, especially his love for trees and flowers.

Happy Birthday to a poet who delivered more than 2000 babies over the course of 40 years as a doctor in New Jersey in the early 1900’s. Most people thought he was just a doctor, most didn’t even know he was a poet. –DeaneTR
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
The birches are mad with green points
the wood’s edge is burning with their green,
burning, seething–No, no, no.
The birches are opening their leaves one
by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold
and separate, one by one. Slender tassels
hang swaying from the delicate branch tips–
Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.
Black is split at once into flowers. In
every bog and ditch, flares of
small fire, white flowers!–Agh,
the birches are mad, mad with their green.
The world is gone, torn into shreds
with this blessing. What have I left undone
that I should have undertaken?

O my brother, you redfaced, living man
ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon
this same dirt that I touch–and eat.
We are alone in this terror, alone,
face to face on this road, you and I,
wrapped by this flame!
Let the polished plows stay idle,
their gloss already on the black soil.
But that face of yours–!
Answer me. I will clutch you. I
will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face
into your face and force you to see me.
Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest
thing that is in your mind to say,
say anything. I will understand you–!
It is the madness of the birch leaves opening
cold, one by one.

My rooms will receive me. But my rooms
are no longer sweet spaces where comfort
is ready to wait on me with its crumbs.
A darkness has brushed them. The mass
of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken.
Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed.
I am shaken, broken against a might
that splits comfort, blows apart
my careful partitions, crushes my house
and leaves me–with shrinking heart
and startled, empty eyes–peering out
into a cold world.

In the spring I would be drunk! In the spring
I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things.
Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei!
your hands, your lips to drink!
Give me your wrists to drink–
I drag you, I am drowned in you, you
overwhelm me! Drink!
Save me! The shad bush is in the edge
of the clearing. The yards in a fury
of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror.
Drink and lie forgetting the world.

And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one.
Coldly I observe them and wait for the end.
And it ends.


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