Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.
William Carlos Williams
The Thinker by William Carlos Williams
My wife’s new pink slippers
have gay pompons.
There is not a spot or a stain
on their satin toes or their sides.
All night they lie together
under her bed’s edge.
Shivering I catch sight of them
and smile, in the morning.
Later I watch them
descending the stair,
hurrying through the doors
and round the table,
moving stiffly
with a shake of their gay pompons!
And I talk to them
in my secret mind
out of pure happiness.
Full Moon by William Carlos Williams
Blessed moon
noon
of night
that through the dark
bids Love
stay—
curious shapes
awake
to plague me
Is day near
shining girl?
Yes, day!
the warm
the radiant
all fulfilling
day
Complete Destruction by William Carlos Williams
It was an icy day,
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set match to it
in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.
The Hunter by William Carlos Williams
In the flashes and black shadows
of July
the days, locked in each other’s arms,
seem still
so that squirrels and colored birds
go about at ease over
the branches and through the air.
Where will a shoulder split or
a forehead open and victory be?
Nowhere.
Both sides grow older.
And you may be sure
not one leaf will lift itself
from the ground
and become fast to a twig again.
Arrival by William Carlos Williams
And yet one arrives somehow,
finds himself loosening the hooks of
her dress
in a strange bedroom–
feels the autumn
dropping its silk and linen leaves
about her ankles.
The tawdry veined body emerges
twisted upon itself
like a winter wind. . .!
Epitaph by William Carlos Williams
An old willow with hollow branches
slowly swayed his few high bright tendrils
and sang:
Love is a young green willow
shimmering at the bare wood’s edge.
Hero by William Carlos Williams
Fool,
put your adventures
into those things
which break ships–
not female flesh.
Let there pass
over the mind
the waters of
four oceans, the airs
of four skies!
Return hollow-bellied
keen-eyed, hard!
A simple scar or two.
Little girls will come
bringing you
roses for your button-hole.
The Poem by William Carlos Williams
It’s all in
the sound. A song.
Seldom a song. It should
be a song–made of
particulars, wasps,
a gentian–something
immediate, open
scissors, a lady’s
eyes–waking
centrifugal, centriperal
El Hombre by William Carlos Williams
It’s a strange courage
you give me ancient star:
Shine alone in the universe
toward which you lend no part!
Leonard Durso 