Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous William Carlos (WCW) Williams Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous William Carlos (WCW) Williams poems. This is a select list of the best famous William Carlos (WCW) Williams poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous William Carlos (WCW) Williams poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of william carlos (wcw) williams poems.

Search and read the best famous William Carlos (WCW) Williams poems, articles about William Carlos (WCW) Williams poems, poetry blogs, or anything else William Carlos (WCW) Williams poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

A Celebration

 A middle-northern March, now as always— 
gusts from the South broken against cold winds— 
but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide, 
it moves—not into April—into a second March, 

the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping 
upon the mold: this is the shadow projects the tree 
upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere. 

So we will put on our pink felt hat—new last year! 
—newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back 
the seasons—and let us walk to the orchid-house, 
see the flowers will take the prize tomorrow 
at the Palace. 
 Stop here, these are our oleanders. 
When they are in bloom— 
 You would waste words 
It is clearer to me than if the pink 
were on the branch. It would be a searching in 
a colored cloud to reveal that which now, huskless, 
shows the very reason for their being. 

And these the orange-trees, in blossom—no need 
to tell with this weight of perfume in the air. 
If it were not so dark in this shed one could better 
see the white. 
 It is that very perfume 
has drawn the darkness down among the leaves. 
Do I speak clearly enough? 
It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone 
loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings— 
not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion 
of a sigh. A too heavy sweetness proves 
its own caretaker. 
And here are the orchids! 
 Never having seen 
such gaiety I will read these flowers for you: 
This is an odd January, died—in Villon's time. 
Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet 
grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom. 

And this, a certain July from Iceland: 
a young woman of that place 
breathed it toward the South. It took root there. 
The color ran true but the plant is small. 

This falling spray of snow-flakes is 
a handful of dead Februaries 
prayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez 
of Guatemala. 
 Here's that old friend who 
went by my side so many years: this full, fragile 
head of veined lavender. Oh that April 
that we first went with our stiff lusts 
leaving the city behind, out to the green hill— 
May, they said she was. A hand for all of us: 
this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem. 

June is a yellow cup I'll not name; August 
the over-heavy one. And here are— 
russet and shiny, all but March. And March? 
Ah, March— 
 Flowers are a tiresome pastime. 
One has a wish to shake them from their pots 
root and stem, for the sun to gnaw. 

Walk out again into the cold and saunter home 
to the fire. This day has blossomed long enough. 
I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze 
instead which will at least warm our hands 
and stir up the talk. 
 I think we have kept fair time. 
Time is a green orchard.


Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

Poem (As the cat)

 As the cat
climbed over
the top of

the jamcloset
first the right
forefoot

carefully
then the hind
stepped down
into the pit of
the empty
flowerpot
Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

The Ivy Crown

 The whole process is a lie,
 unless,
 crowned by excess,
It break forcefully,
 one way or another,
 from its confinement—
or find a deeper well.
 Antony and Cleopatra
 were right;
they have shown
 the way. I love you
 or I do not live
at all.

Daffodil time
 is past. This is
 summer, summer!
the heart says,
 and not even the full of it.
 No doubts
are permitted—
 though they will come
 and may
before our time
 overwhelm us.
 We are only mortal
but being mortal
 can defy our fate.
 We may
by an outside chance
 even win! We do not
 look to see
jonquils and violets
 come again
 but there are,
still,
 the roses!

Romance has no part in it.
 The business of love is
 cruelty which,
by our wills,
 we transform
 to live together.
It has its seasons,
 for and against,
 whatever the heart
fumbles in the dark
 to assert
 toward the end of May.
Just as the nature of briars
 is to tear flesh,
 I have proceeded
through them.
 Keep
 the briars out,
they say.
 You cannot live
 and keep free of
briars.

Children pick flowers.
 Let them.
 Though having them
in hand
 they have no further use for them
 but leave them crumpled
at the curb's edge.

At our age the imagination
 across the sorry facts
 lifts us
to make roses
 stand before thorns.
 Sure
love is cruel
 and selfish
 and totally obtuse—
at least, blinded by the light,
 young love is.
 But we are older,
I to love
 and you to be loved,
 we have,
no matter how,
 by our wills survived
 to keep
the jeweled prize
 always
 at our finger tips.
We will it so
 and so it is
 past all accident.
Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

To Elsie

 The pure products of America
go crazy—
mountain folk from Kentucky

or the ribbed north end of
Jersey
with its isolate lakes and

valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves
old names
and promiscuity between

devil-may-care men who have taken
to railroading
out of sheer lust of adventure—

and young slatterns, bathed
in filth
from Monday to Saturday

to be tricked out that night
with gauds
from imaginations which have no

peasant traditions to give them
character
but flutter and flaunt

sheer rags-succumbing without
emotion
save numbed terror

under some hedge of choke-cherry
or viburnum-
which they cannot express—

Unless it be that marriage
perhaps
with a dash of Indian blood

will throw up a girl so desolate
so hemmed round
with disease or murder

that she'll be rescued by an
agent—
reared by the state and

sent out at fifteen to work in
some hard-pressed
house in the suburbs—

some doctor's family, some Elsie—
voluptuous water
expressing with broken

brain the truth about us—
her great
ungainly hips and flopping breasts

addressed to cheap
jewelry
and rich young men with fine eyes

as if the earth under our feet
were
an excrement of some sky

and we degraded prisoners
destined
to hunger until we eat filth

while the imagination strains
after deer
going by fields of goldenrod in

the stifling heat of September
Somehow
it seems to destroy us

It is only in isolate flecks that
something
is given off

No one
to witness
and adjust, no one to drive the car
Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

A Sort Of A Song

 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.


Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

from Asphodel That Greeny Flower

 Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
 like a buttercup
 upon its branching stem-
save that it's green and wooden-
 I come, my sweet,
 to sing to you.
We lived long together
 a life filled,
 if you will,
with flowers. So that
 I was cheered
 when I came first to know
that there were flowers also
 in hell.
 Today
I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers
 that we both loved,
 even to this poor
colorless thing-
 I saw it
 when I was a child-
little prized among the living
 but the dead see,
 asking among themselves:
What do I remember
 that was shaped
 as this thing is shaped?
while our eyes fill
 with tears.
 Of love, abiding love
it will be telling
 though too weak a wash of crimson
 colors it
to make it wholly credible.
 There is something
 something urgent
I have to say to you
 and you alone
 but it must wait
while I drink in
 the joy of your approach,
 perhaps for the last time.
And so
 with fear in my heart
 I drag it out
and keep on talking
 for I dare not stop.
 Listen while I talk on
against time.
 It will not be
 for long.
I have forgot
 and yet I see clearly enough
 something
central to the sky
 which ranges round it.
 An odor
springs from it!
 A sweetest odor!
 Honeysuckle! And now
there comes the buzzing of a bee!
 and a whole flood
 of sister memories!
Only give me time,
 time to recall them
 before I shall speak out.
Give me time,
 time.
When I was a boy
 I kept a book
 to which, from time
to time,
 I added pressed flowers
 until, after a time,
I had a good collection.
 The asphodel,
 forebodingly,
among them.
 I bring you,
 reawakened,
a memory of those flowers.
 They were sweet
 when I pressed them
and retained
 something of their sweetness
 a long time.
It is a curious odor,
 a moral odor,
 that brings me
near to you.
 The color
 was the first to go.
There had come to me
 a challenge,
 your dear self,
mortal as I was,
 the lily's throat
 to the hummingbird!
Endless wealth,
 I thought,
 held out its arms to me.
A thousand tropics
 in an apple blossom.
 The generous earth itself
gave us lief.
 The whole world
 became my garden!
But the sea
 which no one tends
 is also a garden
when the sun strikes it
 and the waves
 are wakened.
I have seen it
 and so have you
 when it puts all flowers
to shame.
 Too, there are the starfish
 stiffened by the sun
and other sea wrack
 and weeds. We knew that
 along with the rest of it
for we were born by the sea,
 knew its rose hedges
 to the very water's brink.
There the pink mallow grows
 and in their season
 strawberries
and there, later,
 we went to gather
 the wild plum.
I cannot say
 that I have gone to hell
 for your love
but often
 found myself there
 in your pursuit.
I do not like it
 and wanted to be
 in heaven. Hear me out.
Do not turn away.
I have learned much in my life
 from books
 and out of them
about love.
 Death
 is not the end of it.
There is a hierarchy
 which can be attained,
 I think,
in its service.
 Its guerdon
 is a fairy flower;
a cat of twenty lives.
 If no one came to try it
 the world
would be the loser.
 It has been
 for you and me
as one who watches a storm
 come in over the water.
 We have stood
from year to year
 before the spectacle of our lives
 with joined hands.
The storm unfolds.
 Lightning
 plays about the edges of the clouds.
The sky to the north
 is placid,
 blue in the afterglow
as the storm piles up.
 It is a flower
 that will soon reach
the apex of its bloom.
 We danced,
 in our minds,
and read a book together.
 You remember?
 It was a serious book.
And so books
 entered our lives.
The sea! The sea!
 Always
 when I think of the sea
there comes to mind
 the Iliad
 and Helen's public fault
that bred it.
 Were it not for that
 there would have been
 no poem but the world
 if we had remembered,
 those crimson petals
spilled among the stones,
 would have called it simply
 murder.
The sexual orchid that bloomed then
 sending so many
 disinterested
men to their graves
 has left its memory
 to a race of fools
or heroes
 if silence is a virtue.
 The sea alone
with its multiplicity
 holds any hope.
 The storm
has proven abortive
 but we remain
 after the thoughts it roused
to
 re-cement our lives.
 It is the mind
the mind
 that must be cured
 short of death's
intervention,
 and the will becomes again
 a garden. The poem
is complex and the place made
 in our lives
 for the poem.
Silence can be complex too,
 but you do not get far
 with silence.
Begin again.
 It is like Homer's
 catalogue of ships:
it fills up the time.
 I speak in figures,
 well enough, the dresses
you wear are figures also,
 we could not meet
 otherwise. When I speak
of flowers
 it is to recall
 that at one time
we were young.
 All women are not Helen,
 I know that,
but have Helen in their hearts.
 My sweet,
 you have it also, therefore
I love you
 and could not love you otherwise.
 Imagine you saw
a field made up of women
 all silver-white.
 What should you do
but love them?
 The storm bursts
 or fades! it is not
the end of the world.
 Love is something else,
 or so I thought it,
a garden which expands,
 though I knew you as a woman
 and never thought otherwise,
until the whole sea
 has been taken up
 and all its gardens.
It was the love of love,
 the love that swallows up all else,
 a grateful love,
a love of nature, of people,
 of animals,
 a love engendering
gentleness and goodness
 that moved me
 and that I saw in you.
I should have known,
 though I did not,
 that the lily-of-the-valley
is a flower makes many ill
 who whiff it.
 We had our children,
rivals in the general onslaught.
 I put them aside
 though I cared for them.
as well as any man
 could care for his children
 according to my lights.
You understand
 I had to meet you
 after the event
and have still to meet you.
 Love
 to which you too shall bow
along with me-
 a flower
 a weakest flower
shall be our trust
 and not because
 we are too feeble
to do otherwise
 but because
 at the height of my power
I risked what I had to do,
 therefore to prove
 that we love each other
while my very bones sweated
 that I could not cry to you
 in the act.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
 I come, my sweet,
 to sing to you!
My heart rouses
 thinking to bring you news
 of something
that concerns you
 and concerns many men. Look at
 what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in
 despised poems.
 It is difficult
to get the news from poems
 yet men die miserably every day
 for lack
of what is found there.
 Hear me out
 for I too am concerned
and every man
 who wants to die at peace in his bed
 besides.
Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

April Is The Saddest Month

 There they were
stuck
dog and *****
halving the compass

Then when with his yip
they parted
oh how frolicsome

she grew before him
playful
dancing and
how disconsolate

he retreated
hang-dog
she following
through the shrubbery
Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

Light Hearted William

 Light hearted William twirled 
his November moustaches 
and, half dressed, looked
from the bedroom window
upon the spring weather. 
Heigh-ya! sighed he gaily 
leaning out to see 
up and down the street 
where a heavy sunlight 
lay beyond some blue shadows. 

Into the room he drew 
his head again and laughed
to himself quietly 
twirling his green moustaches.
Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

To A Friend

 Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen men—and 
the baby hard to find a father for! 

What will the good Father in Heaven say 
to the local judge if he do not solve this problem? 
A little two-pointed smile and—pouff!— 
the law is changed into a mouthful of phrases.
Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus

 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

Book: Reflection on the Important Things