#williamcarloswilliams - Hello Poetry

So much depends Upon A great blue Ocean Blanketing over the fishes Shimmering under the Sun

0

Aug 22, 2019

Aug 22, 2019 at 6:53 AM UTC

soulfolk

ocean

So much depends Upon A great blue Ocean Blanketing over the fishes Shimmering under the Sun

8

SO much depends upon a red wheel barrow So MUCH depends upon a red wheelbarrow So much DEPENDS upon a red wheelbarrow So much depends UPON a red wheelbarrow So much depends upon A red wheelbarrow So much depends upon a RED wheel barrow So much depends upon a red WHEEL barrow So much depends upon a red wheel BARROW

0

Dec 20, 2018

Dec 20, 2018 at 9:40 PM UTC

swiggins

Diagonal XXII

SO much depends upon a red wheel barrow So MUCH depends upon a red wheelbarrow So much DEPENDS upon a red wheelbarrow So much depends UPON a red wheelbarrow So much depends upon A red wheelbarrow So much depends upon a RED wheel barrow So much depends upon a red WHEEL barrow So much depends upon a red wheel BARROW

8

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

0

May 7, 2018

May 7, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC

onhiatus

“This Is Just To Say” By William Carlos 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

12

so much depends upon an elderly Jewish woman possessing an acid wit and having survived cancer

0

Jan 23, 2017

Jan 23, 2017 at 11:57 PM UTC

rj-days

RBG

so much depends upon an elderly Jewish woman possessing an acid wit and having survived cancer

8

an edge, the Double facet becomes a gEometry-- but each petAl ends in But if it enDs but love is at an End--of roses cementiNg the grooved colD, precise, touching columnS of air--The edge Crisp, worked to deFeat cuts without cuttIng edGe and the figUred in majolica-- from it--neitheR hanging From the petal's Edge a line starts glazed with A rose infiniteLy fine, infinitely It Is at the edge of the itself in metal or porcelaiN-- laboredness--fragilE makes copper roses meets--nothing--renews nor pushing-- penetrates space petal that love waits plucked, moist, half-raised rigid penetrates Sharper, neater, more cutting so that to engage roses Somewhere the sense steel roses-- that being of steel the broken plate The fragility of the flower the Milky Way The place between the petal’s The rose carried weight of love The rose is obsolete the start is begun unbruised What whither? It ends— without contact--lifting

0

Dec 24, 2015

Dec 24, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC

norm-deplume

a·be·ce·dar·i·an ro·se

an edge, the Double facet becomes a gEometry-- but each petAl ends in But if it enDs but love is at an End--of roses cementiNg the grooved colD, precise, touching columnS of air--The edge Crisp, worked to deFeat cuts without cuttIng edGe and the figUred in majolica-- from it--neitheR hanging From the petal's Edge a line starts glazed with A rose infiniteLy fine, infinitely It Is at the edge of the itself in metal or porcelaiN-- laboredness--fragilE makes copper roses meets--nothing--renews nor pushing-- penetrates space petal that love waits plucked, moist, half-raised rigid penetrates Sharper, neater, more cutting so that to engage roses Somewhere the sense steel roses-- that being of steel the broken plate The fragility of the flower the Milky Way The place between the petal’s The rose carried weight of love The rose is obsolete the start is begun unbruised What whither? It ends— without contact--lifting

42

The last poem written by William Carlos Williams must linger in the room where he died in his sleep. Words float like atoms of dust visible only in the light of the afternoon sun. There is comfort here in this quiet room; the unmade bed, an empty glass, the dog-eared pages of books carefully stacked on the nightstand waiting to be reread. His last poem does not slice the air like the jagged edge of cut metal; rather, it succumbs to the inevitable forces of entropy tearing apart its metaphors until they no longer resemble verse. The last poem written by William Carlos Williams falls to the shadowy corners of the small room unseen, undisturbed, at rest.

0

Aug 21, 2014

Aug 21, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC

patrick-h

Death of a great poet

The last poem written by William Carlos Williams must linger in the room where he died in his sleep. Words float like atoms of dust visible only in the light of the afternoon sun. There is comfort here in this quiet room; the unmade bed, an empty glass, the dog-eared pages of books carefully stacked on the nightstand waiting to be reread. His last poem does not slice the air like the jagged edge of cut metal; rather, it succumbs to the inevitable forces of entropy tearing apart its metaphors until they no longer resemble verse. The last poem written by William Carlos Williams falls to the shadowy corners of the small room unseen, undisturbed, at rest.

26

I have eaten raw cookie dough that was in the freezer and which you were probably saving for a party Forgive me it was scrumptious so sweet and so cold

0

May 29, 2014

May 29, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC

margaretmaloney

Note Poem: Inspired by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten raw cookie dough that was in the freezer and which you were probably saving for a party Forgive me it was scrumptious so sweet and so cold

11