William Carlos Williams

Of all I love you bestO my Japanese bird nestNo herring from NorwayCan touch you for flavor. NayPimento itselfis flat as an empty shelfWhen compared to your piquancyO quince of my despondency.

nothing more to be desired! his statebecomes like that told in the famousdouble sonnet–but without thesonnet’s restrictions. Let him go lookat the river flowing or the bankof late flowers, there will be onesmall fly still among the petalsin whose gauzy wings raised aboveits back a rainbow shines. The worldto him is radiant and even the…

burning, seething–No, no, no.The birches are opening their leaves oneby one. Their delicate leaves unfold coldand separate, one by one. Slender tasselshang swaying from the delicate branch tips–Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word.Black is split at once into flowers. Inevery bog and ditch, flares ofsmall fire, white flowers!–Agh,the birches are mad, mad…

and think pityinglyof the kind women I have known.

in the background the returnfrom the hunt it is toward eveningfrom the leftsturdy hunters lead intheir pack the inn-signhanging from abroken hinge is a stag a crucifixbetween his antlers the coldinn yard isdeserted but for a huge bonfirethat flares wind-driven tended bywomen who clusterabout it to the right beyondthe hill is a pattern of skatersBrueghel…

in a soiled undershirthis hair standing outon all sidesstood on his toesheels togetherarms gracefullyfor the momentcurled above his head.Then he whirled aboutboundedinto the airand with an entrechatperfectly achievedcompleted the figure.My mothertaken by surprisewhere she satin her invalid’s chairwas left speechless.Bravo! she cried at lastand clapped her hands.The man’s wifecame from the kitchen:What goes on here?…

past midnight, a dustof snow caughtin the rigid wheeltracks.The door opens.I smile, enter andshake off the cold.Here is a great womanon her side in the bed.She is sick,perhaps vomiting,perhaps laboringto give birth toa tenth child. Joy! Joy!Night is a roomdarkened for lovers,through the jalousies the sunhas sent one golden needle!I pick the hair from her…

are sleepingand the sun is a flame-white discin silken mistsabove shining trees,—if I in my north roomdance naked, grotesquelybefore my mirrorwaving my shirt round my headand 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, buttocksagainst the yellow drawn shades,—Who…

Not because of his eyes,the eyes of a bird,but because he is beaked,birdlike, to do an injury,has the turtle attracted you.He is your only pet.When we are togetheryou talk of nothing elseascribing all sortsof murderous motivesto his least action.You ask meto write a poem,should I have a poem to write,about a turtle.The turtle lives in…

jerks her shouldersright and leftso as to catch a glimpse of mewithout turning round.Her skinny little armswrap themselvesthis way then thatreversely about her body!Nervouslyshe crushes her straw hatabout her eyesand tilts her headto deepen the shadow—smiling excitedly!As best as she canshe hides herselfin the full sunlighther cordy legs writhingbeneath the little flowered dressthat leaves them…