De Amerikaanse dichter William Carlos Williams werd geboren in Rutherford (New Jersey) op 17 september 1883. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 september 2006.

A Goodnight

 

Go to sleep–though of course you will not–
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices–
sleep, sleep . . .

Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby.
Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders,
hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings–
lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles,
the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks:
it is all to put you to sleep,
to soften your limbs in relaxed postures,
and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen
and fall over your eyes and over your mouth,
brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream,
sleep and dream–

A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors–
sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon
the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his
message, to have in at your window. Pay no
heed to him. He storms at your sill with
cooings, with gesticulations, curses!
You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping.
He would have you sit under your desk lamp
brooding, pondering; he would have you
slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger
and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen–
go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby;
his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is
a crackbrained messenger.

The maid waking you in the morning
when you are up and dressing,
the rustle of your clothes as you raise them–
it is the same tune.
At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice
on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in
your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over.

The open street-door lets in the breath of
the morning wind from over the lake.
The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes–
lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,
the movement of the troubled coat beside you–
sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of
the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed
with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep.
And the night passes–and never passes—

 

William Carlos Williams (17 september 1883 –  4 maart 1963)

William Carlos Williams werd geboren in Rutherford (New Jersey) op 17 september 1883. Hi is een van de belangrijke Amerikaanse dichters van de eerste helft van de 20e eeuw. Hij studeerde medicijnen aan de Universiteit van Pennsylvania en begon zijn eigen praktijk in zijn woonplaats Rutherford.

Tijdens zijn studie was Williams al begonnen met het schrijven van gedichten. Hij werd daarbij zeer beïnvloed door Ezra Pound die hij op de universiteit had leren kennen. Pound speelde ook een belangrijke rol bij de publicatie van Williams’ boek The Tempers in 1913, dat zijn talenten als dichter voor het eerst blootlegde. De invloed van Williams als dichter groeide langzaam in de jaren 20 en 30. In de jaren 50 ontstond een heel nieuwe belangstelling voor Williams toen hij door dichters van de Beat Generation, zoals Allen Ginsberg, speciale waardering kreeg.

“Libertad! Igualdad! Fraternidad!”

You sullen pig of a man
you force me into the mud
with your stinking ash-cart!

Brother!
–if we were rich
we’d stick our chests out
and hold our heads high!

It is dreams that have destroyed us.

There is no more pride
in horses or in rein holding.
We sit hunched together brooding
our fate.

Well–
all things turn bitter in the end
whether you choose the right or
the left way
and–
dreams are not a bad thing.

 

The Lonely Street

School is over. It is too hot
to walk at ease. At ease
in light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.
They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.
In white from head to foot,
with sidelong, idle look–
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings–
touching their avid mouths
with pink sugar on a stick–
like a carnation each holds in her hand–
they mount the lonely street.

 

Willow Poem

It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loth to let go,
they are so cool, so drunk with
the swirl of the wind and of the river —
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground.

William Carlos Williams (17 september 1883 –  4 maart 1963)