The Red Wheelbarrow & Other Poems Read online

The rose is obsolete

  but each petal ends in

  an edge, the double facet

  cementing the grooved

  columns of air — The edge

  cuts without cutting

  meets — nothing — renews

  itself in metal or porcelain —

  whither? It ends —

  But if it ends

  the start is begun

  so that to engage roses

  becomes a geometry —

  Sharper, neater, more cutting

  figured in majolica —

  the broken plate

  glazed with a rose

  Somewhere the sense

  makes copper roses

  steel roses —

  The rose carried weight of love

  but love is at an end — of roses

  It is at the edge of the

  petal that love waits

  Crisp, worked to defeat

  laboredness — fragile

  plucked, moist, half-raised

  cold, precise, touching

  What

  The place between the petal’s

  edge and the

  From the petal’s edge a line starts

  that being of steel

  infinitely fine, infinitely

  rigid penetrates

  the Milky Way

  without contact — lifting

  from it — neither hanging

  nor pushing —

  The fragility of the flower

  unbruised

  penetrates space

  Proletarian Portrait

  A big young bareheaded woman

  in an apron

  Her hair slicked back standing

  on the street

  One stockinged foot toeing

  the sidewalk

  Her shoe in her hand. Looking

  intently into it

  She pulls out the paper insole

  to find the nail

  That has been hurting her

  Tract

  I will teach you my townspeople

  how to perform a funeral —

  for you have it over a troop

  of artists —

  unless one should scour the world —

  you have the ground sense necessary.

  See! the hearse leads.

  I begin with a design for a hearse.

  For Christ’s sake not black —

  nor white either — and not polished!

  Let it be weathered — like a farm wagon —

  with gilt wheels (this could be

  applied fresh at small expense)

  or no wheels at all:

  a rough dray to drag over the ground.

  Knock the glass out!

  My God — glass, my townspeople!

  For what purpose? Is it for the dead

  to look out or for us to see

  how well he is housed or to see

  the flowers or the lack of them —

  or what?

  To keep the rain and snow from him?

  He will have a heavier rain soon:

  pebbles and dirt and what not.

  Let there be no glass —

  and no upholstery, phew!

  and no little brass rollers

  and small easy wheels on the bottom —

  my townspeople what are you thinking of?

  A rough plain hearse then

  with gilt wheels and no top at all.

  On this the coffin lies

  by its own weight.

  No wreaths please —

  especially no hot house flowers.

  Some common memento is better,

  something he prized and is known by:

  his old clothes — a few books perhaps —

  God knows what! You realize

  how we are about these things

  my townspeople —

  something will be found — anything

  even flowers if he had come to that.

  So much for the hearse.

  For heaven’s sake though see to the driver!

  Take off the silk hat! In fact

  that’s no place at all for him —

  up there unceremoniously

  dragging our friend out to his own dignity!

  Bring him down — bring him down!

  Low and inconspicuous! I’d not have him ride

  on the wagon at all — damn him —

  the undertaker’s understrapper!

  Let him hold the reins

  and walk at the side

  and inconspicuously too!

  Then briefly as to yourselves:

  Walk behind — as they do in France,

  seventh class, or if you ride

  Hell take curtains! Go with some show

  of inconvenience; sit openly —

  to the weather as to grief.

  Or do you think you can shut grief in?

  What — from us? We who have perhaps

  nothing to lose? Share with us

  share with us — it will be money

  in your pockets.

  Go now

  I think you are ready.

  The Ivy Crown

  The whole process is a lie,

  unless,

  crowned by excess,

  it break forcefully,

  one way or another,

  from its confinement —

  or find a deeper well.

  Antony and Cleopatra

  were right;

  they have shown

  the way. I love you

  or I do not live

  at all.

  Daffodil time

  is past. This is

  summer, summer!

  the heart says,

  and not even the full of it.

  No doubts

  are permitted —

  though they will come

  and may

  before our time

  overwhelm us.

  We are only mortal

  but being mortal

  can defy our fate.

  We may

  by an outside chance

  even win! We do not

  look to see

  jonquils and violets

  come again

  but there are,

  still,

  the roses!

  Romance has no part in it.

  The business of love is

  cruelty which,

  by our wills,

  we transform

  to live together.

  It has its seasons,

  for and against,

  whatever the heart

  fumbles in the dark

  to assert

  toward the end of May.

  Just as the nature of briars

  is to tear flesh,

  I have proceeded

  through them.

  Keep

  the briars out,

  they say.

  You cannot live

  and keep free of

  briars.

  Children pick flowers.

  Let them.

  Though having them

  in hand

  they have no further use for them

  but leave them crumpled

  at the curb’s edge.

  At our age the imagination

  across the sorry facts

  lifts us

  to make roses

  stand before thorns.

  Sure

/>   love is cruel

  and selfish

  and totally obtuse —

  at least, blinded by the light,

  young love is.

  But we are older,

  I to love

  and you to be loved,

  we have,

  no matter how,

  by our wills survived

  to keep

  the jeweled prize

  always

  at our finger tips.

  We will it so

  and so it is

  past all accident.

  The Locust Tree in Flower

  Among

  of

  green

  stiff

  old

  bright

  broken

  branch

  come

  white

  sweet

  May

  again

  Copyright © 1938, 1944, 1950, 1951, 1953, 1955, 1959, 1960, 1962 by William Carlos Williams

  Copyright © 1963 by the Estate of William Carlos Williams

  Copyright © 1967 by Mrs. William Carlos Williams

  Copyright © 2018 by New Directions Publishing Corporation

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  New Directions Books are printed on acid-free paper

  First published by New Directions as NDP1417 in 2018

  Design by Marian Bantjes

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Names: Williams, William Carlos, 1883–1963 author.

  Title: The red wheelbarrow and other poems / by William Carlos Williams.

  Description: New York, NY : New Directions, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018009695 (print) | LCCN 2018002153 (ebook) | ISBN 9780811227896 (ebook) | ISBN 9780811227889 (alk. paper)

  Classification: LCC PS3545.I544 (print) | LCC PS3545.I544 A6 2018 (ebook) | DDC 811/.52--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018009695

  eISBN: 9780811227896

  New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

  by New Directions Publishing Corporation

  80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

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