Fuck Yeah William Carlos Williams

One of my favorite paragraphs 

Well… I would say that poetry is language charged with emotion. It’s words, rhythmically organized…A poem is a complete little universe. It exists separately. Any poem that has worth expresses thew hole life of hte poet. It gives a view of what the poet is.

I never tire of the mystery of these streets: the three baskets of dried flowers in the high

barroom window, the gulls wheeling above the factory, the dirty snow—the humility of the snow that silvers everything and is

“April” by William Carlos Williams

There were the roses, in the rain.
 Don’t cut them, I pleaded.
 They won’t last, she said.
 But they’re so beautiful
 where they are.
 Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said,
 and cut them and gave them to me
 in my hand.

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.

illustrator/photoshop.

There were the roses, in the rain. Don’t cut them, I pleaded. They won’t last, she said. But they’re so beautiful where they are. Agh, we were all beautiful once, she said, and cut them and gave them to me in my hand.