William Carlos Williams(1883–1963)
Book I
Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
like a buttercup
upon its branching stem—
save that it's green and wooden—
I come, my sweet,
to sing to you.
We lived long together
a life filled,
if you will,
with flowers. So that
I was cheered
when I came first to know
that there were flowers also
in hell.
Today
I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers
that we both loved,
even to this poor
colorless thing—
I saw it
when I was a child—
little prized among the living
but the dead see,
asking among themselves:
What do I remember
that was shaped
as this thing is shaped
while our eyes fill
with tears.
Of love, abiding love
it will be telling
though too weak a wash of crimson
colors it
to make it wholly credible.
There is something
something urgent
I have to say to you
and you alone
but it must wait
while I drink in
the joy of your approach,
perhaps for the last time.
And so
with fear in my heart
I drag it out
and keep on talking
for I dare not stop.
Listen while I talk on
against time.
It will not be
for long.
I have forgot
and yet I see clearly enough
something
c e n t r a l to t h e s k y
w h i c h r a n g e s r o u n d it.
A n o d o r
s p r i n g s f r o m it!
A s w e e t e s t o d o r !
Honeysuckle! And now
t h e r e c o m e s t h e b u z z i n g o f a b e e !
a n d a w h o l e f l o o d
o f s i s t e r m e m o r i e s !
O n l y g i v e m e t i m e ,
time to recall them
b e f o r e I s h a l l s p e a k o u t .
G i v e m e t i m e ,
time.
W h e n I w a s a b o y
I k e p t a b o o k
t o w h i c h , f r o m t i m e
t o t i m e ,
I a d d e d p r e s s e d f l o w e r s
u n t i l , a f t e r a t i m e ,
I h a d a g o o d c o l l e c t i o n .
T h e a s p h o d e l ,
f o r e b o d i n g l y ,
a m o n g t h e m .
I b r i n g y o u ,
reawakened,
a m e m o r y o f t h o s e f l o w e r s .
T h e y w e r e s w e e t
w h e n I p r e s s e d t h e m
a n d r e t a i n e d
something of their sweetness
a l o n g t i m e .
I t i s a c u r i o u s o d o r ,
a m o r a l o d o r ,
t h a t b r i n g s m e
near to you.
T h e c o l o r
w a s t h e f i r s t t o g o .
T h e r e h a d c o m e t o m e
a c h a l l e n g e ,
y o u r d e a r s e l f ,
m o r t a l a s I w a s ,
t h e lily's t h r o a t
t o t h e h u m m i n g b i r d !
E n d l e s s w e a l t h ,
I thought,
h e l d o u t i t s a r m s t o m e .
A t h o u s a n d t r o p i c s
i n a n a p p l e b l o s s o m .
T h e g e n e r o u s e a r t h i t s e l f
g a v e u s l i e f . 9
T h e w h o l e w o r l d
became my garden!
But the sea
which no one tends
is also a garden
when the sun strikes it
and the waves
are wakened.
I have seen it
and so have you
when it puts all flowers
to shame.
Too, there are the starfish
stiffened by the sun
and other sea wrack
and weeds. We knew that
along with the rest of it
for we were born by the sea,
knew its rose hedges
to the very water's brink.
There the pink mallow grows
and in their season
Strawberries
and there, later,
we went to gather
the wild plum.
I cannot say
that I have gone to hell
for your love
but often
found myself there
in your pursuit.
I do not like it
and wanted to be
in heaven. Hear me out.
Do not turn away.
I have learned much in my life
from books
and out of them
about love.
Death
is not the end of it.
There is a hierarchy
which can be attained,
I think,
in its service.
Its guerdonreward
is a fairy flower;
a cat of twenty lives.
If no one came to try it
The World
would be the loser.
It has been
for you and me
as one who watches a storm
c o m e i n o v e r t h e w a t e r .
W e h a v e s t o o d
f r o m y e a r t o y e a r
b e f o r e t h e s p e c t a c l e o f o u r l i v e s
w i t h j o i n e d h a n d s .
T h e s t o r m u n f o l d s .
L i g h t n i n g
p l a y s a b o u t t h e e d g e s o f t h e c l o u d s .
T h e s k y t o t h e n o r t h
is p l a c i d ,
b l u e i n t h e a f t e r g l o w
a s t h e s t o r m p i l e s u p .
It is a f l o w e r
t h a t w i l l s o o n r e a c h
t h e a p e x o f i t s b l o o m .
W e d a n c e d ,
i n o u r m i n d s ,
a n d r e a d a b o o k t o g e t h e r .
Y o u r e m e m b e r ?
It was a serious book.
A n d s o b o o k s
e n t e r e d o u r l i v e s .
T h e s e a ! T h e s e a !
Always
w h e n I t h i n k o f t h e s e a
t h e r e c o m e s t o m i n d
the Iliad
a n d H e l e n ' s p u b l i c f a u l t
t h a t b r e d it.1
W e r e i t n o t f o r t h a t
t h e r e w o u l d h a v e b e e n
n o p o e m b u t t h e w o r l d
i f w e h a d r e m e m b e r e d ,
t h o s e c r i m s o n p e t a l s
s p i l l e d a m o n g t h e s t o n e s ,
w o u l d h a v e c a l l e d i t s i m p l y
m u r d e r .
T h e s e x u a l o r c h i d t h a t b l o o m e d t h e n
s e n d i n g s o m a n y
d i s i n t e r e s t e d
m e n t o t h e i r g r a v e s
h a s l e f t i t s m e m o r y
t o a r a c e o f f o o l s
o r h e r o e s
if s i l e n c e is a v i r t u e .
T h e s e a a l o n e
w i t h i t s m u l t i p l i c i t y
h o l d s a n y h o p e .
T h e s t o r m
has proven abortive
but we remain
after the thoughts it roused
to
re-cement our lives.
It is the mind
the mind
that must be cured
short of death's
intervention,
and the will becomes again
a garden. The poem
is complex and the place made
in our lives
for the poem.
Silence can be complex too,
but you do not get far
with silence.
Begin again.
It is like Homer's
catalogue of ships:2
it fills up the time.
I speak in figures,
well enough, the dresses
you wear are figures also,
we could not meet
otherwise. When I speak
of flowers
it is to recall
that at one time
we were young.
All women are not Helen,
I know that,
but have Helen in their hearts.
My sweet,
you have it also, therefore
I love you
and could not love you otherwise.
Imagine you saw
a field made up of women
all silver-white.
What should you do
but love them
The storm bursts
or fades! it is not
the end of the world.
Love is something else,
or so I thought it,
a garden which expands,
though I knew you as a woman
and never thought otherwise,
until the whole sea
has been taken up
and all its gardens.
It was the love of love,
the love that swallows up all else,
a grateful love,
a love of nature, of people,
animals,
a love engendering
gentleness and goodness
that moved me
and that I saw in you.
I should have known,
though I did not,
that the lily-of-the-valley
is a flower makes many ill
who whiff it.
We had our children,
rivals in the general onslaught.
I put them aside
though I cared for them
as well as any man
could care for his children
according to my lights.
You understand
I had to meet you
after the event
and have still to meet you.
Love
to which you too shall bow
along with me—
a flower
a weakest flower
shall be our trust
and not because
we are too feeble
to do otherwise
but because
at the height of my power
I risked what I had to do,
therefore to prove
that we love each other
while my very bones sweated
that I could not cry to you
in the act.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
I come, my sweet,
to sing to you.
My heart rouses
thinking to bring you news
of something
that concerns you
and concerns many men. Look at
what passes for the new.
Y o u w i l l n o t f i n d i t t h e r e b u t i n
d e s p i s e d p o e m s .
I t i s d i f f i c u l t
t o g e t t h e n e w s f r o m p o e m s
y e t m e n d i e m i s e r a b l y e v e r y d a y
f o r l a c k
o f w h a t i s f o u n d t h e r e .
H e a r m e o u t
f o r I t o o a m c o n c e r n e d
a n d e v e r y m a n
w h o w a n t s t o d i e a t p e a c e i n h i s b e d
b e s i d e s .