William Carlos WilliamsBesprekingen

30000

Well, I am going to be brutally honest: I had never heard of William Carlos Williams or any of his poetry before The Well-Educated Mind Reading Challenge, and I do not think I was missing anything. At least from the suggested list. If that was his best...pfff.

I know -- I talk like I know poetry. I don't.

But I can read something and know if it was worth it or if it was impressive or beautiful or if I can at least relate to it or take away something from it. Williams' poetry was mostly experimental; he is called an Imaginist. He did not follow rules of writing poetry (or made them up as he wrote). He did not write sentences with punctuation. He just improvised in style. In the poetry world, I suppose it was successful because here he is on a list for me to read. But I could have just skipped it and I would not have missed anything. Except one or two, which I will get to in a moment, which were above acceptable.

Here were the suggested titles I had read, and following is a brief impression of each..

Asphodel That Greeny Flower (Love letter asking wife for forgiveness. Somewhat interesting.)
The Descent of Winter (journal writings…really long and not interesting)
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus (about Bruegel’s painting! Clever.)
The Last Words of My English Grandmother (That was odd.)
Proletarian Portrait (I think he lost me.)
The Red Wheelbarrow (really experimental)
Self-Portrait (very weird)
Sonnet in Search of an Author (WHAT DID I JUST READ??)
Spring and All (OK, better…)
This is Just to Say (I forgot.)
Tract (I have no idea.)
To Elsie (depressing)

Overall, I gave Williams three stars because some of his poetry was agreeable, though mostly I found it tolerable, which means: I tolerated it (but I don't know how). His topics were widely varied, which was fine, but his expression of them were very peculiar; and again, I do not understand why poetry has to be strangely obscure.

"Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" was my only favorite because it caused me to revisit the painting by Bruegel. Williams pointed out that no one had noticed what had happened to Icarus, even the fisherman at the water's edge, a few feet from where Icarus entered the water. It was all kind of humorous. Possibly, Bruegel meant it to be, and Williams was moved to write about it.

And "Asphodel," the love letter to his wife (or ex-wife), was worthwhile, too. He wrote it near the end of his life or when he was very ill, and he was convicted to ask her forgiveness for his unfaithfulness. What a way to do it, if you can write poetry.

* * *

I never know how to review a book of poetry. I learned in the preface that the five books that make up Paterson were originally published in separate volumes in 1946, 1948, 1949, 1951, and 1958, and that through the various printings of the work, the text changed. In this 1992 edition, all five books were collected, and the editor studied all the manuscripts, galleys, and proof pages to decide which versions to include. Anyway, Paterson is a city near me in New Jersey, and also near where William Carlos Williams lived. Its main geographical feature is the Great Falls on the Passaic River, which looms above the city, and the books of the poem metaphorically follow the course of that river as it meanders through northern New Jersey and then ultimately out to the sea. The poetry is both about the city of Paterson but also about Williams's life and the history of the whole region. No wonder it is such a masterpiece! This edition, edited by Christopher MacGowan, has lots of interesting footnotes and explanatory material. I first read this poem in my teens before I ever moved to New Jersey and became familiar with these places. My own experiences and the notes helped make it so much more.

I need to read this book again. I first read it and I fell in love with William Carlos Williams. This is work of literary criticism (which often philosophizes) threaded with some of the best poetry. Here you find Williams’s ethos open and bare. I found it exquisite like an oyster. I think I ate it with the same spoon too. The reprinting by New Directions Publishing as an object in itself is profound. I will read it again and I will have more to say.

Reading Books I-IV (especially Book II) was the most exciting, energetic, and formally refreshing reading experience I've had, I think, ever. I haven't been this convinced on the merits and distinctions of poetry since I read Ondaatje's The Collected Poems of Billy the Kid. Paterson feels like something one re-enters half a dozen times in their lifetime. I feel like carrying it around like a bible.

This Is Just To Say

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

William Carlos Williams

- - -

A small collection of poems by William Carlos Williams. Due to my low control of English, I was scared by the size and complexity of the actual books of him (like Paterson or others), so I guess this was the right choice for starting to appreciate the simple, clear grace of this amazing poet.

La gran novela americana (1923) es una novela experimental de William Carlos Williams. Aunque se le conoce sobre todo como poeta, Williams amplió con frecuencia los límites de la prosa a lo largo de su carrera. En la década decisiva del modernismo, Williams intentó probar la llamada “Gran Novela Americana”, un concepto que alimentó un apasionado debate en los círculos académicos y artísticos de todo el país. Lejos de ser convencional, la novela de Williams es una incursión metaficcional en asuntos más posmodernos que modernos, un comentario disfrazado de narración y una sátira de la excesiva dependencia de los clichés en forma y contenido. “Si hay progreso, hay novela. Sin progreso no hay nada. Todo existe desde el principio. Yo existía al principio. Yo era un bebé baboso. Hoy he visto hierbas sin nombre… He golpeado la tierra con el nudillo. Sonaba a hueco. Estaba seca como el caucho. Eones de sequía. No ha llovido en quince días. No ha llovido. Nunca ha llovido. Nunca lloverá”. La novela de Williams comienza con la palabra y un nacimiento. El lenguaje describe la experiencia de despertar a la experiencia, de llegar a la conciencia como un ser vivo en un mundo vivo. Utilizando palabras del habla cotidiana, construye una novela a partir de observaciones, un libro que permanece consciente de sí mismo en todo momento. Al igual que el niño cuya primera experiencia con la palabra escrita suele provenir de nombres y eslóganes extendidos sobre camiones y vallas publicitarias, el lector acaba aceptando su nueva realidad, un mundo en el que la gente ama y triunfa y fracasa, en el que la historia y el arte interceden para dar sentido a lo que pueden. La Gran Novela Americana muestra la forma experimental de Williams, estirando el significado de “novela” hasta su límite más lejano.

I know some people like this sort of thing, but Modernist poetry is... not for me.

The poem in its entirety is...

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

fell in love w his words while teaching them w Preston at Trinity - Danse Russe caused a muffled stir

This a great selection of fascinating stories (and some poetry) giving insight into medicine in the early twentieth century. Williams has a style that's direct, memorable and powerful. It's surprising that he isn't more famous.

happy.

I thankfully found The Doctor Stories rummaging through my beloved circuit of St. Louis used bookstores--up until this, I have only read WCW's poetry (which I love). Who knows how long I would have gone without reading his prose had this morsel not insisted in staying in my grasp?

...
I am failing to write what I need to say.
...
...
hmph
...


This is beautiful. This is humanity. Of course, this is what WCW is. It's been several years since I've really immersed myself in his poetry, but I need to go back and do it again. I knew all about him when I got into him years ago--his bio and poetry are fairly inseparable--but maybe it has taken this time to feel like I have a better handle of who he was as a person and how he faced the world. For the first time--really--it blew my mind to truly realize the depth of the life he led. How in the hell did he become so prolific as a writer working simultaneously as a pediatrician and obstetrician for decades? And had a family (though notoriously was put on the back burner), kept up with all of his great artistic friends, and still had time for womanizing? HA! How? What? Huh?

This collection dwells in a time when doctors made house calls; when births and deaths happened in the same bed, in the same neighborhood, in its own distinct language; before health insurance became the predominant factor for how you would be cared. WCW did not have a cush practice; he set his life to help those in poverty. His determination and undying passion for his work and people comes through equally strong in his stories as it does in his poetry. In this collection, you witness the destruction of cultural and ethnic barriers and feel the devotion of a man who has willed his life to the service of others.

I think the clincher for me, though, was the "The Practice" from his autobiography, wherein he relates the uniqueness of a physician's role in a person's (and community's) life and how poetry cannot help but flow from it. It brought me to my knees (and I've just added it to my faithful paperbackswap queue). In a way, it reminded me a lot of the role and importance of the public education system today. Sadly, doctors do not inhabit the same community role as they did 100 years ago. The opportunity Williams' speaks of to be involved with such a wide variety of people at various stages of their lives, to go far beyond the tasks his title deems he perform--boy, did that remind me of teaching. I'm about a breath away from embarking on a tirade, so I am stopping there.

This is beautiful. Please make sure to read his prose, too.

I really didn't know what to do with this collection and found myself a bit befuddled and disoriented by what I took to be a treatise as much as poetry collection. I could do with some follow up reviews, particularly around his ideas about imagination.

Having read A Fortunate Man recently, John Berger's account of the world view of a country doctor, I was pleased to discover in a Leiden bookshop the other day, this collection assembled by Williams' son.

Thirty years earlier, country US, written by a poet who supports himself through doctoring. Whereas it is Berger's eye which informs what we read about his country doctor, here it is the medico's eye that informs the writing. Having just been rereleased, there may be a new audience for this slim volume. It's enthralling to read as a lay person interested in fiction, but Williams' musings on the world of the general practitioner is not part of the canon for that group the way Berger's still is. Maybe, even compared with Berger's, it's too bluntly honest. Doctors don't come out of this smelling of any sort of flowers.

Having said that, if you are interested in medical views of literature that strays into their area, you can go here and here.

Highly recommended.

Having read A Fortunate Man recently, John Berger's account of the world view of a country doctor, I was pleased to discover in a Leiden bookshop the other day, this collection assembled by Williams' son.

Thirty years earlier, country US, written by a poet who supports himself through doctoring. Whereas it is Berger's eye which informs what we read about his country doctor, here it is the medico's eye that informs the writing. Having just been rereleased, there may be a new audience for this slim volume. It's enthralling to read as a lay person interested in fiction, but Williams' musings on the world of the general practitioner is not part of the canon for that group the way Berger's still is. Maybe, even compared with Berger's, it's too bluntly honest. Doctors don't come out of this smelling of any sort of flowers.

Having said that, if you are interested in medical views of literature that strays into their area, you can go here and here.

Highly recommended.

Having read A Fortunate Man recently, John Berger's account of the world view of a country doctor, I was pleased to discover in a Leiden bookshop the other day, this collection assembled by Williams' son.

Thirty years earlier, country US, written by a poet who supports himself through doctoring. Whereas it is Berger's eye which informs what we read about his country doctor, here it is the medico's eye that informs the writing. Having just been rereleased, there may be a new audience for this slim volume. It's enthralling to read as a lay person interested in fiction, but Williams' musings on the world of the general practitioner is not part of the canon for that group the way Berger's still is. Maybe, even compared with Berger's, it's too bluntly honest. Doctors don't come out of this smelling of any sort of flowers.

Having said that, if you are interested in medical views of literature that strays into their area, you can go here and here.

Highly recommended.

This was an incredible assembly of poems by the famous William Carlos Williams. There is much to like, enjoy, and explore here and the themes are various and radiating in their luminescence and their intensity. Overall, I think that anyone interested in poetry- at all, will enjoy this.

5 stars!

Early Poems by William Carlos Williams is a collection of the poet's early work from Dover Thrift Publications. Born in America in 1883 Williams is a contemporary of Ezra Pound and Willaim Frost. His work is associated with modernism and imagism. Williams work reflects the American identity of poetry breaking away from the strict British and European form. It was a raw, fresh, and grew from the American experience.

This is a collection for those who think they might like poetry but are afraid of the baggage that accompanies poetry interpretation. Williams style is simple and contains plenty of imagery that any reader can easily understand by all.

There is a bird in the poplars!
It is the sun!
the leaves are yellow little fish
swimming in the river.
The bird skims above them,
day is on his wings.

...

~ Metric Figure

Williams not only examines nature but harbors and a lengthy poem on a train station, "Overture to the Dance of Locomotives", is perhaps my favorite from the collection. There is nothing complicated to the reading. It can be read simply for enjoyment without worry of iambic meter, fertility references, or fear that your thinking of the poem is wrong. Thoroughly an enjoyable collection poems. This edition is available as an ebook for just over two dollars also eliminated the worry of spending too much money on a subject that the reader is unfamiliar with. A very worthwhile addition to anyone's library.

When I saw this tiny and sweet edition on vacation last summer, I couldn't resist it -- the few Williams poems I'd encountered in my Modern Poetry MOOC class had been among my favorites.

This collection starts right off with two of his most famous: "This is Just to Say" and "The Red Wheelbarrow," which is nice to know that they are both included, but then also gives one a feeling of sinking into further and further obscurity as one reads along. Early in the collection is also the delightful "Danse Russe" and spare "Poem" (everyone likes poems about cats). And of course, the "Portrait of a Lady," a poem about writing poetry is fun. And "Between Walls" about finding strange beauty in ugly places! And anyway when I started this paragraph I was making a case that the editor front-loaded this collection too heavily with the best known and best loved poems, but I seem to be undermining my own case as I skim through again.

I can say nothing new about Williams or his poetry. But I will say that I would have loved a little one-page bio of him included here. Otherwise, this edition is delightful, from its spare red cover with its white chickens to its French flaps and portable hand/pocket size to the red type and occasional chicken throughout.

Would be lovely for gifting for any mom/dad/grad season.

Back when I was in High School I read The Red Wheelbarrow. I didn't really get it. I didn't get how it was a poem, but I thought it was interesting.

Now that I read this select collection of poems from William Carlos Williams, I can see that he paints images with words. Williams happens to do this very effectively as well. Upon reading the poems, I could visualize the settings of everything he was describing. Now, the thing about poetry is that I am not good at it. I can appreciate it I suppose, but I am not your College Professor in that sense. All I can say is that this is a collection that made me feel pleasant. That is all. this book is further improved by the fact that it contains information on Williams and how he wrote. Though I guess most anthologies of poems will do that to some extent, especially ones focusing on one poet.

I will return to most poems by Williams eventually, though it might take some time.

What a strange turn. It reminded me of Sorrentino, though I fear this lacked cubist construction. The early part of the book appears concerned with levels and vitality of imagination. I did reflect on that at length, though without success as to ascertain my own development. Then perpetually at an oblong angle remain Persephone. Hail the perennial. Dissemination!

These pieces keep a proximity to the earth, as such. Doctor and farmer are but two of the roles which occupy WCW. Decomposition earns its foreground, astride the wasted seed.

Matters then become abstracted and elongated into emotional whispers. Fidelity and the flesh harken to a Homeric shore. Williams notes each position but his prior wounds are never forgotten. Excerpts of letters from Pound, Stevens and HD illuminate while acting as scar tissue.

Memory remains a biological phenomenon, removed from the brocaded currency of writing-in-itself. I enjoyed these pieces, much mead for a thirsty soul.

The poem
if it reflects the sea
reflects only
its dance
upon that profound depth
where
it seems to triumph.

Reading these poems this frozen afternoon, I sensed almost a dislocation and then swift reconstruction of my faculties. WCW was offering me thinking lessons. My congery of indifference may be sliding towards despair but I harbor a measured hope. The early miniatures required a few readings. I discovered some kinship reading about the farmers with their scythes and reflecting that the wheat-shearing scene in Anna Karenina was Proust's favorite. The later poems depict an aging poet finding joy at the limits of his craft. There’s perhaps a shared warmth in muted loneliness.

We know nothing and can know nothing
but the dance, to dance to a measure
contrapuntally,
Satyrically, the tragic foot.

Listen to me as an Everyman. Humble, belabored with a smile and some snark amidst the hopeless. I rise eager each morning, maybe a little fuzzy but poised. I truly lack ambition beyond my wife, my books and my job. Please shield me, my flabby exterior.

A man is indeed a city, and for the poet there are no ideas but in things

I have lived in a smallish river town most of my life. Louisville is just across the bridge. Our falls though mentioned in Paterson are empty of laurels. I can't strive to the Eternal in the night, the labor of the day keeps me weedy---and thirsty. This was a triumph, unexpected to a degree. Paterson is an admixture of form, a blurring of geology, human folly and the gleam of the moment. Consider me enriched.

the faces are raised
as toward the light
there is no detail extraneous

You know, I credit Mike Puma with this turn, oh and Robert Zimmerman and maybe Ezra Pound. All these loose associations led a curious thrust into verse these last days of 2015. It might prove habit forming. There is something remarkable to wake from a deep slumber and find traction into verse. My initial encounters were ill defined. Form was found as I progressed.

Without other cost than breath
and the poor soul,
carried in the cage of the ribs,
chirping shrilly

The world of Williams appear to exist as a collection of things. There's stuff and some of it is alive. We are enriched by this awareness, if not the distinction. There doesn't appear to be any greater point. There is a melody then of thing-ness. I am quite tempted to now approach his long-form verse.

To be fair, I read this for a WCW class and had to zoom through 200 poems in about a week. But so many of them didn't make sense to me. References felt obscure and... well, I just had trouble enjoying most of the poems. My favorites, though, were "El Hombre" and "The Manouevre."