Get Your Premium Membership

William Carlos (WCW) Williams Short Poems

Famous Short William Carlos (WCW) Williams Poems. Short poetry by famous poet William Carlos (WCW) Williams. A collection of the all-time best William Carlos (WCW) Williams short poems


by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 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.



by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 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

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 There they were
stuck
dog and bitch
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

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 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.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 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.



by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 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

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 Flowers through the window
lavender and yellow

changed by white curtains—
Smell of cleanliness—

Sunshine of late afternoon—
On the glass tray

a glass pitcher, the tumbler
turned down, by which

a key is lying— And the
immaculate white bed

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 Old age is
a flight of small
cheeping birds
skimming
bare trees
above a snow glaze.
Gaining and failing they are buffeted by a dark wind— But what? On harsh weedstalks the flock has rested— the snow is covered with broken seed husks and the wind tempered with a shrill piping of plenty.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 Here it is spring again 
and I still a young man! 
I am late at my singing.
The sparrow with the black rain on his breast has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past: What is it that is dragging at my heart? The grass by the back door is stiff with sap.
The old maples are opening their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
A moon hangs in the blue in the early afternoons over the marshes.
I am late at my singing.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand

They taste good to her
They taste good
to her.
They taste good to her You can see it by the way she gives herself to the one half sucked out in her hand Comforted a solace of ripe plums seeming to fill the air They taste good to her

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 I bought a dishmop— 
having no daughter— 
for they had twisted 
fine ribbons of shining copper 
about white twine 
and made a tousled head
of it, fastened it 
upon a turned ash stick
slender at the neck 
straight, tall— 
when tied upright 
on the brass wallbracket
to be a light for me 
and naked 
as a girl should seem 
to her father.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 A day on the boulevards chosen out of ten years of 
student poverty! One best day out of ten good ones.
Berket in high spirits—"Ha, oranges! Let's have one!" And he made to snatch an orange from the vender's cart.
Now so clever was the deception, so nicely timed to the full sweep of certain wave summits, that the rumor of the thing has come down through three generations—which is relatively forever!

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 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 .
.
.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 It was an icy day.
We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped earth and fire died by the cold.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 They call me and I go.
It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
The door opens.
I smile, enter and shake off the cold.
Here is a great woman on her side in the bed.
She is sick, perhaps vomiting, perhaps laboring to give birth to a tenth child.
Joy! Joy! Night is a room darkened for lovers, through the jalousies the sun has sent one golden needle! I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 Snow falls:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down—
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes—
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there— his solitary track stretched out upon the world.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 Vast and grey, the sky
is a simulacrum
to all but him whose days
are vast and grey and—
In the tall, dried grasses
a goat stirs
with nozzle searching the ground.
My head is in the air but who am I .
.
.
? —and my heart stops amazed at the thought of love vast and grey yearning silently over me.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 Some leaves hang late, some fall
before the first frost—so goes 
the tale of winter branches and old bones.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler, swing and grow paler over the swirling waters of the river as if loth to let go, they are so cool, so drunk with the swirl of the wind and of the river— oblivious to winter, the last to let go and fall into the water and on the ground.

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 I gotta
buy me a new
girdle.
(I'll buy you one) O.
K.
(I wish you'd wig- gle that way for me, I'd be a happy man) I GOTTA wig- gle for this.
(You pig)

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
 If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,—
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely,
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
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?

by William Carlos (WCW) Williams
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, 
he could have
gone on forever
he floated
at and sang
and when he emerged from that
one hundred eight minutes off
the surface of
the earth he was smiling.

Then he returned
to take his place
among the rest of us
from all that division and
subtraction a measure
to and heel
heel and toe he felt
as if he had
been dancing


Book: Reflection on the Important Things