the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem;
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over?
or nothing.

(William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), U.S. poet. Queen-Ann's-Lace (l. 17-21). . . Norton Anthology of Poetry, The. Alexander W. Allison and others, eds. (3d ed., 1983) W. W. Norton & Company.)

Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.

(William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), U.S. poet. Portrait of a Lady (l. 18-22). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady's
slipper.

(William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), U.S. poet. Portrait of a Lady (l. 1-5). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

Say it! No ideas but in things.

(William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), U.S. poet. repr. In Collected Earlier Poems (1966). Paterson, bk. 1, "The Delineaments of the Giants," sct. 1 (1946, rev. 1963). Williams' poetic dictum?to present the subject concretely, without literary artifice?was influential on the Beat writers, notably Allen Ginsberg.)

Sunshine of late afternoon?
On the glass tray

a glass pitcher, the tumbler
turned down, by which

a key is lying?And the
immaculate white bed

(William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), U.S. poet. Nantucket (l. 5-10). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.)

It is dangerous to leave written that which is badly written. A chance word, upon paper, may destroy the world. Watch carefully and erase, while the power is still yours, I say to myself, for all that is put down, once it escapes, may rot its way into a thousand minds, the corn become a black smut, and all libraries, of necessity, be burned to the ground as a consequence. Only one answer: write carelessly so that nothing that is not green will survive.

(William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), U.S. poet. Paterson, bk. 3, "The Library," sct. 3 (1949, rev. 1963).)

This was I,
a sparrow.
I did my best;
farewell.

(William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), U.S. poet. The Sparrow (l. 136-139). . . The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams; Vol. 2, 1909-1939. A. Walton Litz and Christopher MacGowan, eds. (1986) New Directions.)

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.

(William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), U.S. poet. Tract (l. 28-32). . . The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams; Vol. 1, 1909-1939. A. Walton Litz and Christopher MacGowan, eds. (1986) New Directions.)

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?

(William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), U.S. poet. Tract (l. 8-11). . . The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams; Vol. 1, 1909-1939. A. Walton Litz and Christopher MacGowan, eds. (1986) New Directions.)

You know what? Poets are being pursued by the philosophers today out of the poverty of philosophy. God damn it, you might think a man had no business to be writing, to be a poet unless some philosophic stinker gave him permission.

(William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), U.S. poet. Letter, January 14, 1944, to James Laughlin. William Carlos Williams and James LaughlinSelected letters, ed. H. Witemeyer (1989).)