Author Topic: William Carlos Williams  (Read 3854 times)

Frederique

  • Moderator
  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 80230
  • Gender: Female
  • Creative, Hardworking and Able!
    • V and F
William Carlos Williams
« on: 05 Jun, 2011, 10:47:04 »
William Carlos Williams (September 17, 1883 – March 4, 1963) was an American poet closely associated with modernism and Imagism. He was also a pediatrician and general practitioner of medicine, having graduated from the University of Pennsylvania. Williams "worked harder at being a writer than he did at being a physician"; but during his long lifetime, Williams excelled at both.


William Carlos Williams
  image source

Poems published in Translatum


More poems by William Carlos Williams
An index of poems by Rabindranath Tagore
Poem Hunter





Back to index of world poetry

World poetry translated into Greek


« Last Edit: 21 Sep, 2012, 12:51:38 by Frederique »
Communicate. Explore potentials. Find solutions.


Frederique

  • Moderator
  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 80230
  • Gender: Female
  • Creative, Hardworking and Able!
    • V and F
William Carlos Williams, A Cold Front
« Reply #1 on: 05 Jun, 2011, 10:48:39 »
William Carlos Williams, A Cold Front

This woman with a dead face
has seven foster children
and a new baby of her own in
spite of that. She want pills

for an abortion and says,
Uh hum, in reply to me while
her blanketed infant makes
unrelated grunts of salutation.

She looks at me with her mouth
open and blinks her expressionless
carved eyes, like a cat
on a limb too tired to go higher

from its tormentors. And still
the baby chortles in its spit
and there is a dull flush
almost of beauty to the woman's face

as she says, looking at me
quietly, I won't have any more.
In a case like this I know
quick action is the main thing.


Source: Poetry Foundation
Communicate. Explore potentials. Find solutions.

Frederique

  • Moderator
  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 80230
  • Gender: Female
  • Creative, Hardworking and Able!
    • V and F
William Carlos Williams, Summer Song
« Reply #2 on: 05 Jun, 2011, 10:49:53 »
William Carlos Williams, Summer Song


Wanderer moon
smiling a
faintly ironical smile
at this
brilliant, dew-moistened
summer morning,—
a detached
sleepily indifferent
smile, a
wanderer's smile,—
if I should
buy a shirt
your color and
put on a necktie


Source: Poets.org
Communicate. Explore potentials. Find solutions.


Frederique

  • Moderator
  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 80230
  • Gender: Female
  • Creative, Hardworking and Able!
    • V and F
William Carlos Williams, Tract
« Reply #3 on: 05 Jun, 2011, 10:51:10 »
William Carlos Williams, Tract

I will teach you my townspeople
how to perform a funeral–
for you have it over a troop
of artists–
unless one should scour the world–
you have the ground sense necessary.

See! the hearse leads.
I begin with a design for a hearse.
For Christ's sake not black–
nor white either–and not polished!
Let it be weathered–like a farm wagon–
with gilt wheels (this could be
applied fresh at small expense)
or no wheels at all:
a rough dray to drag over the ground.

Knock the glass out!
My God–glass, my townspeople!
For what purpose? Is it for the dead
to look out or for us to see
how well he is housed or to see
the flowers or the lack of them–
or what?
To keep the rain and snow from him?
He will have a heavier rain soon:
pebbles and dirt and what not.
Let there be no glass–
and no upholstery, phew!
and no little brass rollers
and small easy wheels on the bottom–
my townspeople what are you thinking of?

A rough plain hearse then
with gilt wheels and no top at all.
On this the coffin lies
by its own weight.

No wreaths please–
especially no hot house flowers.
Some common memento is better,
something he prized and is known by:
his old clothes–a few books perhaps–
God knows what! You realize
how we are about these things
my townspeople–
something will be found–anything
even flowers if he had come to that.
So much for the hearse.

For heaven's sake though see to the driver!
Take off the silk hat! In fact
that's no place at all for him–
up there unceremoniously
dragging our friend out to his own dignity!
Bring him down–bring him down!
Low and inconspicuous! I'd not have him ride
on the wagon at all–damn him–
the undertaker's understrapper!
Let him hold the reins
and walk at the side
and inconspicuously too!

Then briefly as to yourselves:
Walk behind–as they do in France,
seventh class, or if you ride
Hell take curtains! Go with some show
of inconvenience; sit openly–
to the weather as to grief.
Or do you think you can shut grief in?
What–from us? We who have perhaps
nothing to lose? Share with us
share with us–it will be money
in your pockets.


Source: Translatum, Thanks to E. Petelos, 19 Aug, 2006
Communicate. Explore potentials. Find solutions.

crystal

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 9021
  • Gender: Female
    • krystallia.katsarou
    • crystaurelia
    • krystalliakatsarou
    • 107946586133656839791
    • crystaurelia
William Carlos Williams, Danse Russe
« Reply #4 on: 21 Sep, 2012, 11:32:42 »
William Carlos Williams, Danse Russe

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?


Source: Poetry Foundation

crystal

  • Hero Member
  • *****
  • Posts: 9021
  • Gender: Female
    • krystallia.katsarou
    • crystaurelia
    • krystalliakatsarou
    • 107946586133656839791
    • crystaurelia
William Carlos Williams, Smell
« Reply #5 on: 21 Sep, 2012, 11:35:14 »
William Carlos Williams, Smell

Oh strong-ridged and deeply hollowed
nose of mine! what will you not be smelling?
What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose,
always indiscriminate, always unashamed,
and now it is the souring flowers of the bedreggled
poplars: a festering pulp on the wet earth
beneath them. With what deep thirst
we quicken our desires
to that rank odor of a passing springtime!
Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardors
for something less unlovely? What girl will care
for us, do you think, if we continue in these ways?
Must you taste everything? Must you know everything?
Must you have a part in everything?


Source: PoemHunter