Poetry by William Carlos Williams (scary books to read .txt) 📕
- Author: William Carlos Williams
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and it is cold … !
White thighs of the sky! a
new answer out of the depths of
my male belly: In April …
In April I shall see again—In April!
the round and perfect thighs
of the Police Sergeant’s wife
perfect still after many babies.
Oya! Spring Storm
The sky has given over
its bitterness.
Out of the dark change
all day long
rain falls and falls
as if it would never end.
Still the snow keeps
its hold on the ground.
But water, water
from a thousand runnels!
It collects swiftly,
dappled with black
cuts a way for itself
through green ice in the gutters.
Drop after drop it falls
from the withered grass-stems
of the overhanging embankment.
The hostess, in pink satin and blond hair—dressed
high—shone beautifully in her white slippers against
the great silent bald head of her little-eyed husband!
Raising a glass of yellow Rhine wine in the narrow
space just beyond the light-varnished woodwork and
the decorative column between dining-room and hall,
she smiled the smile of water tumbling from one ledge
to another.
We began with a herring salad: delicately flavoured
saltiness in scallops of lettuce-leaves.
The little owl-eyed and thick-set lady with masses
of grey hair has smooth pink cheeks without a wrinkle.
She cannot be the daughter of the little red-faced
fellow dancing about inviting lion-headed Wolff the
druggist to play the piano! But she is. Wolff is a
terrific smoker: if the telephone goes off at night—so
his curled-haired wife whispers—he rises from bed but
cannot answer till he has lighted a cigarette.
Sherry wine in little conical glasses, dull brownish
yellow, and tomatoes stuffed with finely cut chicken
and mayonnaise!
The tall Irishman in a Prince Albert and the usual
striped trousers is going to sing for us. (The piano
is in a little alcove with dark curtains.) The hostess’s
sister—ten years younger than she—in black net and
velvet, has hair like some filmy haystack, cloudy about
the eyes. She will play for her husband.
My wife is young, yes she is young and pretty when
she cares to be—when she is interested in a discussion:
it is the little dancing mayor’s wife telling her of the
Day nursery in East Rutherford, ’cross the track,
divided from us by the railroad—and disputes as to
precedence. It is in this town the saloon flourishes,
the saloon of my friend on the right whose wife has
twice offended with chance words. Her English is
atrocious! It is in this town that the saloon is situated,
close to the railroad track, close as may be, this side
being dry, dry, dry: two people listening on opposite
sides of a wall!—The Day Nursery had sixty-five
babies the week before last, so my wife’s eyes shine
and her cheeks are pink and I cannot see a blemish.
Ice-cream in the shape of flowers and domestic
objects: a pipe for me since I do not smoke, a doll
for you.
The figure of some great bulk of a woman disappearing
into the kitchen with a quick look over the
shoulder. My friend on the left who has spent the
whole day in a car the like of which some old fellow
would give to an actress: flower-holders, mirrors,
curtains, plush seats—my friend on the left who is
chairman of the Streets committee of the town council
—and who has spent the whole day studying automobile
fire-engines in neighbouring towns in view of
purchase—my friend, at the Elks last week at the
breaking-up hymn, signalled for them to let Bill—a
familiar friend of the saloon-keeper—sing out all alone
to the organ—and he did sing!
Salz-rolls, exquisite! and Rhine wine ad libitum.
A masterly caviare sandwich.
The children flitting about above stairs. The
councilman has just bought a National eight—some
car!
For heaven’s sake I mustn’t forget the halves of
green peppers stuffed with cream cheese and whole
walnuts!
I have had my dream—like others—
and it has come to nothing, so that
I remain now carelessly
with feet planted on the ground
and look up at the sky—
feeling my clothes about me,
the weight of my body in my shoes,
the rim of my hat, air passing in and out
at my nose—and decide to dream no more.
A three-day-long rain from the east—
an interminable talking, talking
of no consequence—patter, patter, patter.
Hand in hand little winds
blow the thin streams aslant.
Warm. Distance cut off. Seclusion.
A few passers-by, drawn in upon themselves,
hurry from one place to another.
Winds of the white poppy! there is no escape!—
An interminable talking, talking,
talking … it has happened before.
Backward, backward, backward.
Poor old Abner, old white-haired nigger!
I remember when you were so strong
you hung yourself by a rope round the neck
in Doc Hollister’s barn to prove you could beat
the faker in the circus—and it didn’t kill you.
Now your face is in your hands, and your elbows
are on your knees, and you are silent and broken.
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.
I feel the caress of my own fingers
on my own neck as I place my collar
and think pityingly
of the kind women I have known.
Some leaves hang late, some fall
before the first frost—so goes
the tale of winter branches and old bones.
O my grey hairs!
You are truly white as plum blossoms.
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than I am,
by what devious means do you contrive
to remain idle? Teach me, O master.
Leaves are greygreen,
the glass broken, bright green.
By constantly tormenting them
with reminders of the lice in
their children’s hair, the
School Physician first
brought their hatred down on him,
But by this familiarity
they grew used to him, and so,
at last,
took him for their friend and adviser.
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.
You say love is this, love is that:
Poplar tassels, willow tendrils
the wind and the rain
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