Archive for the ‘William Carlos Williams’ Tag
Variation On A Theme — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams
1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next
summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.
2
We laughed at the hollyhocks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.
3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten
years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.
4
Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy, and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!
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Cedar Waxwings — Photo-Artistry by kenne
To Waken An Old Lady
a flight of small
cheeping birds
skimming
bare trees
above a snow glaze.
Gaining and failing
they are buffeted
by a dark wind—
But what?
On harsh weedstalks
the flock has rested—
the snow
is covered with broken
seed husks
and the wind tempered
with a shrill
piping of plenty.
— William Carlos Williams
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Mountains To The East — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Peace On Earth
The Archer is wake!
The Swan is flying!
Gold against blue
An Arrow is lying.
There is hunting in heaven—
Sleep safe till tomorrow.
The Bears are abroad!
The Eagle is screaming!
Gold against blue
Their eyes are gleaming!
Sleep!
Sleep safe till tomorrow.
The Sisters lie
With their arms intertwining;
Gold against blue
Their hair is shining!
The Serpent writhes!
Orion is listening!
Gold against blue
His sword is glistening!
Sleep!
There is hunting in heaven—
Sleep safe till tomorrow.
— William Carlos Williams
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Picacho Peak State Park In The Spring — Image by kenne
A Sort Of A Song
Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
sleepless.
—through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.
— William Carlos Williams
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Queen Butterfly — Image by kenne
In summer, the song sings itself.
— William Carlos Williams
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Arrival — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Arrival
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 . . . !
— William Carlos Williams
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Turkey Vulture Out On A Limb — Photo-Artistry by kenne
First he said:
It is the woman in us
That makes us write-
Let us acknowledge it-
Men would be silent.
We are not men
Therefore we can speak
And be conscious
(of the two sides)
Unbent by the sensual
As befits accuracy.
I then said:
Dare you make this
Your propaganda?
And he answered:
Am I not I-here?
— William Carlos Williams
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Edward Hopper’s Lighthouse Village, Cape Elizabeth (1929)
Maine house, 1998, by Michael H. Coles
There is so much I love about the art of Edward Hopper, which is why I continue to turn to his work — so on the pulse of us as Americans. I have never been to Maine, let through painting like Lighthouse Village, I feel as if I grow up in Cape Elizabeth — his inspiration allows my imagination to capture reality.
“I once told Hopper that he shows us who we are,” said poet William Carlos Williams. “He’d have no part of my enthusiasm, or extravagance. ‘Yes, I try,’ he said–and then he spoke about ‘light,” how hard he looks for it. He told me to go ‘hunting’ for light, and I liked hearing him use that word–seeing his face get lit up as he spoke!” (“Seeking Maine’s Light,” DoubleTake, Winter 2000)
The Michael H. Coles photograph of a Maine house taken not far from where Hopper painted Lighthouse Village illustrates how Hopper was able to capture the light.
kenne
Edward Hopper, Self-portrait
Edward Hopper and the House by the Railroad (1925)
by Edward Hirsch
Out here in the exact middle of the day,
This strange, gawky house has the expression
Of someone being stared at, someone holding
His breath underwater, hushed and expectant;
This house is ashamed of itself, ashamed
Of its fantastic mansard rooftop
And its pseudo-Gothic porch, ashamed
of its shoulders and large, awkward hands.
The House by the Railroad by Edward Hopper 1925
But the man behind the easel is relentless.
He is as brutal as sunlight, and believes
The house must have done something horrible
To the people who once lived here
Because now it is so desperately empty,
It must have done something to the sky
Because the sky, too, is utterly vacant
And devoid of meaning. There are no
Trees or shrubs anywhere–the house
Must have done something against the earth.
All that is present is a single pair of tracks
Straightening into the distance. No trains pass.
Now the stranger returns to this place daily
Until the house begins to suspect
That the man, too, is desolate, desolate
And even ashamed. Soon the house starts
To stare frankly at the man. And somehow
The empty white canvas slowly takes on
The expression of someone who is unnerved,
Someone holding his breath underwater.
And then one day the man simply disappears.
He is a last afternoon shadow moving
Across the tracks, making its way
Through the vast, darkening fields.
This man will paint other abandoned mansions,
And faded cafeteria windows, and poorly lettered
Storefronts on the edges of small towns.
Always they will have this same expression,
The utterly naked look of someone
Being stared at, someone American and gawky.
Someone who is about to be left alone
Again, and can no longer stand it.
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DoubleTake Special Edition Cover Photo by Kevin Bubriski: Top Right Photo by Peter Turnley, Bottom Right by Kevin Bubriski
OBITUARIES
These are no pages for the young,
who are better off in one another’s arms,
nor for those who just need to know
about the price of gold
or a hurricane that is ripping up the Keys.
But eventually you may join
the crowed who turn here first to see
who has fallen in the night,
who has left a shape of air walking in their place.
Here is where the final cards are shown,
the age, the cause, the plaque of deeds,
and sometimes an odd scrap of news –
that she collected sugar bowls,
that he played solitaire without and clothes.
And the end is where the survivors
huddle under the tin roof of a paragraph,
as if they had escaped the flame of death.
What better way to place a thin black frame
around the things of the morning –
the hand-painted cup,
the hemispheres of a cut orange,
the slant of sunlight on the table.
And often a most peculiar pair turns up,
strange roommates lying there
side by side on the page –
Arthur Godfrey next to Man Ray,
Bo Diddley by the side of Dale Evans.
It is enough to bring to mind an ark of death,
not the couples of the animal kingdom,
but rather pairs of men and women
ascending the gangplank two by two,
Surgeon and model,
balloonist and metalworker,
an archaeologist and an authority on pain.
Arm in arm, they get on board
then join the others leaning on the rails,
all saved at last from the awful flood of life –
So many of them every day
there would have to be many arks,
an armada to ferry the dead
over the heavy waters that roll beyond the world,
and many Noahs too,
bearded and fiercely browed,
vigilant up there at every prow.
— Billy Collins
CHILDREN’S EXPRESSIONS
“Yet again, as we considered what certain youngsters had to offer the eyes and ears of others, we recalled the words of a New Jersey pediatrician, William Carlos Williams, as recalled by his son, William Eric Williams, also a pediatrician of America’s Garden State, just south of the Manhattan skyline:
“Dad would come home from his house calls {to 9 Ridge Road, Rutherford, where both those does lived and practiced medicine} and he’d be excited, we could see — his face glowing with the light a kid had given him: something said, something drawn. He called those kids him teachers. ‘They don’t miss a trick, and there’s little that passes them by.’ We’d nod — glad to see and enjoy dad, the ever grateful student, saluting with all his heart the boys and girls, ‘the young writers and artists of America,’ he called them, who would always get him going so much.”
Sarah Himmel, fifth grade, Newman Elementary School, Needham, Massachusetts
Melanie Snow, fifth grade, Newman Elementary School, Needham, Massachusetts
Danny Beren, fifth grade, Newman Elementary School, Needham, Massachusetts
Emily Smith, fifth grade, Newman Elementary School, Needham, Massachusetts
All Images from the 2000 Special Edition of DoubleTake Magazine
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Virtual Illusions
Saturday evening light
Flashback to yesteryear,
Listening to the radio
Reading to a musical background.
Pausing the reading,
Surfing radio frequencies
Listening to the words
Of one-note talk shows.
Turning the dial to the left
Searching for painted words
A spontaneous overflow
Streaming powerful feelings.
Hearing words of choice and form
Words expressing the unspoken
Evoking times past
With times present.
Connecting, but questioning,
Who is this poet?
Line after line
Words shared in time.
How could this be?
Do I know her?
Read her poetry?
Heard her read?
Who is she?
Continuing to listen
Who is she?
Words replaced by silence.
Listening carefully,
Who is she?
Loueva Smith –
That’s it, Loueva Smith!
Knowing her name,
Loueva Smith — Photoshop image by kenne from Google Images
Time to Google,
Generating 21 results
One, DoubleTake #13.
Now I know
A virtual illusion
Figment of imagination
Arising out of nothingness.
But, just maybe
She does exist
In the middle
Of nowhere else to go.
Searching through office shelves,
There it was, DoubleTake #13.
Found, but not lost,
Words “…she had learned to keep quiet.”
— Kenne
(Originally posted in 2008)
DoubleTake magazine was unique in American publishing, influencing the way other media began to use photography with writing. Originally published at Duke University’s Center for Documentary Studies between 1995-1999, before moving to Massachusetts, continuing to publish to 2003. I still have issues 8 – 30 from between 1997-2003, including a special edition on September 11, 2001. DoubleTake is a publication I will always treasure. From time to time, I will share some of its content.
kenne
“It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.”
― William Carlos Williams
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![Zographus regalis cuprea [Cameroon]](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/52783978513_e3da275118_s.jpg "Zographus regalis cuprea [Cameroon]")
Becoming is Superior to Being 