The Heart of the Matter

When I read Jonathon Delacour’s “Adieu” two nights ago, I was dumbstruck, not that I haven’t been struck “dumb” while reading poetry lately.

My first reaction was a simple “Damn, Jonathon…”

Although I’d been blogging for awhile before Jonathon and Shelley discovered me, I was inspired to improve my writing after Jonathon praised my site. Jonathon helped me to improve my site by moving to Movable Type and by redesigning my template for me. Whenever I had a Movable Type question, he was there with an answer. It’s not that others weren’t willing to help, they were, especially Shelley and Dorothea, but I always asked Jonathon first because he had helped with the original design. I felt a special friendship for Jonathon.

I must admit, though, that I perfectly understand Jonathon’s desire to spend time on something else. It takes an inordinate amount of time to produce an essay a day for a weblog. My pages turned into something quite different, something not nearly as interesting, when I was doing taxes this year. Unless the pages can somehow be derived from your normal work, they become nearly a “full time job.” At the very least, at times it seems like I’m a full-time college student again.

Unfortunately, that understanding doesn’t make Jonathon’s departure any less painful. As noted many times, I’m an INTP and INTP’s are notorious for having, and needing, few friends. Because we have so few friends, though, we miss them doubly when something happens to them.

I’d recently ordered W.G. Sebald’s Vertigo and Rings of Saturn after Jonathon had mentioned Sebald was his favorite author. Part of my recent interest in postmodernism stemmed from my initial glance at them and my realization that they were going to push my understanding of literature.

I was counting on Jonathon’s comments to amplify my discussion of them and push me to a better understanding of Sebald. Does that mean that I won’t have to read them after all, that I can put them in that large stack of “books I want to read when I get the time,” the same stack that I’ve been trying to get through for over a year now when I first realized that I still have books that I bought in college and haven’t gotten around to reading yet? I don’t know.

Still, I wish Jonathon the best while focusing on other projects. But looking at that stack of unread books makes me nearly as sad as knowing that Jonathon won’t be blogging for awhile, if ever.

Jonathon, “the heart of things,” indeed.

The Foul Rag and Boneshop of the Heart

Unfortunately, The Collected Later Poems doesn’t include a number of my favorite William Carlos Williams’ poems. Luckily, you can find one of them, “Landscape With The Fall of Icarus” over at “We Write to Taste Life Twice,” and while you’re there check out “Bypass,” a beautiful poem by Crystallyn that reminds me of years spent in the Olympic National Forest. Of course one of the advantages of owning a good anthology is that the editor will feature a number of excellent poems by major artists, as does my favorite anthology, Louis Untermeyer’s Modern America Poetry.

As Crystallyn notes in her discussion, Williams was a pediatrician, and this plays a part in a number of excellent poems, but my favorite is “Spring and All:”


By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast-a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines-

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches-

They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind-

Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined-
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf

But now the stark dignity of
entrance-Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken

I love the contrasts in this poem, contrasts between winter and spring, death and birth, sickness and health. At first glance, it almost seems like the hospital, symbolizing illness and death, has spread its contagion to nearby plant life. Of course, rationally we know they’ve merely died because of winter’s cold, but they still seem like a wasteland. Even spring is “dazed” and sluggish. Like the babies that Williams brings into the world, the plants enter the world “naked” and “uncertain of all.” Though first stunned by their cold reception, the plants “grip down” and “begin to awake” to new possibilities.

This same theme, perhaps one of Williams’ major themes, can be found in another favorite, “Love Song:”

Love Song

SWEEP the house clean,
hang fresh curtains
in the windows
put on a new dress
and come with me!
The elm is scattering
its little loaves
of sweet smells
from a white sky!

Who shall hear of us
in the time to come?
Let him say there was
a burst of fragrance
from black branches.

Perhaps living in the Pacific Northwest with it’s notoriously long, gray winters, sometimes extending from September to June, makes me a sucker for spring poems or perhaps I’d just like to believe a little longer there’s gonna be yet another bursting of energy from these old, tired bones, but for whatever the reason, I like this poem as much now as I did when I encountered it in college many a year ago. Though there are few elms here in the west, I look forward to seeing the cherry trees burst into flower every spring. It still seems miraculous to me every time an old fruit tree bursts into flower in the spring, followed by a luscious crop of fruit. No wonder many primitive people worshipped nature and sacrificed to the dead to ensure the rebirth of life in the spring.

While glancing through W.H. Auden’s introduction to The Complete Poems of Cavafy that came in the mail today, I ran across a line that instantly clarified why I prefer Williams’ poems to Pound’s: “The sources of poetry lie, as Yeats said, ‘in the foul rag-and-boneshop of the heart’…” To me at least, Pound appeals primarily to the intellect, while Williams appeals directly to the senses and, at his best, to the heart.

The Beauty of Everyday Life

One of the traits I most admire in William Carlos Williams’ The Collected Later Poems is Williams’ ability to find beauty in common, everyday situations, and to describe that beauty in everyday language. It’s easy to find beauty at the beach or in the mountains, but it’s far easier to be overcome by the ugliness of everyday life than it is to find beauty in it.

”Ballad of Faith” brings back fond memories for me:

Ballad of Faith

No dignity without chromium
No truth but a glossy finish
If she purrs she’s virtuous
If she hits ninety she’s pure

Step on the gas, brother
(the horn sounds hoarsely)

The poem reminds me of simpler days when I took pride in my bright yellow Mustang’s long hood and powerful V-8, days when I washed the car once a week rather than once a year, days when I only slowed down when the front end of the car lifted off the ground.

While I’ve never eaten the “small, yellow grass onion,” I can appreciate the kinds of simple foods, best disguised today as “comfort food:”


The small, yellow grass-onion,
spring’s first green, precursor
to Manhattan’s pavements, when
plucked as it comes, in bunches,
washed, split and fried in
a pan, though inclined to be
a little slimy, if well cooked
and served hot on rye bread
is to beer a perfect appetizer-
and the best part
of it is they grow everywhere.

While unlikely to satisfy the palate of the connoisseur since they’re “inclined to be a little slimy,” such foods, especially when served with a beer, particular a dark, Nitro Stout, might well rival the taste of a Reuben. And if you’re not subject to a foolish addiction to the rare, unknown, and expensive, the fact that it grows everywhere might well make it even more desirable.

I must admit that even I am often overwhelmed by the ugliness of big cities, so I was pleasantly surprised by Williams’ “Approach to a City:”


Getting through with the world-
I never tire of the mystery
of these streets: the three baskets
of dried flowers in the high

bar-room window, the gulls wheeling
above the factory, the dirty
snow-the humility of the snow that
silvers everything and is

trampled and lined with use-yet
falls again, the silent birds
on the still wires of the sky, the blur
of wings as they take off

together. The flags in the heavy
air move against a leaden
ground-the snow
pencilled with the stubble of old

weeds: I never tire of these sights
but refresh myself there
always for there is small holiness
to be found in braver things.

It’s amazing that even in the ugliest, most run-down places someone attempts to invoke beauty’s magical charm, whether it’s “baskets of dried flowers” or plastic flowers exuding their own fresh plastic smell as counterpoint to the urinal disinfectant, another small sign of the artist’s spirit that lives within all of us. Just when it seems industry has banished all wildlife, flocks of gulls or pigeons will arrive, covering the wasteland in bird shit, proving once again that nature cannot be denied. No matter how ugly the wasteland, snow covers it beautifully, turning the sharp corners into voluptuous curves. As Williams points out, “there is a small holiness/ to be found in braver things.”

Perhaps I just like “A Rosebush in an Unlikely Garden” because my blog includes references to Vietnam and pictures of flowers:


The flowers are yours
the full blown
the half awakened

who fished heads
and arms on D day in a net
from the bloody

The stillness
of this squalid corner this
veined achievement is

Somehow this poem symbolizes the transcendence of beauty, of the human soul, over those events in life that threaten to overwhelm and demean us. What a startling, and beautiful, contrast between the soldier’s job on D-day and his attempts to grow flowers in his squalid corner of the universe.

William Carlos Willams’ The Collected Later Poems

Following a recent discussion of Pound’s winning of the Bollingen prize, I read that two of the judges had nominated William Carlos Williams instead. Although I haven’t read Williams for awhile, I remembered some poems fondly, poems I’d previously referred to in this blog. Pursuing this line of thought, I discovered the following comments at the America Academy of Poets

Following Pound, he was one of the principal poets of the Imagist movement, though as time went on, he began to increasingly disagree with the values put forth in the work of Pound and especially Eliot, who he felt were too attached to European culture and traditions. Continuing to experiment with new techniques of meter and lineation, Williams sought to invent an entirely fresh—and singularly American—poetic, whose subject matter was centered on the everyday circumstances of life and the lives of common people.

For me, the critical difference between Pound and Williams is that Williams’ poetry is “centered on the everyday circumstances of life and the lives of common people,” As I stated in an earlier blog entry on Emerson’s “The American Scholar,” I agreed with Emerson when in describing the ideal scholar he said that:

In the right state, he is, Man Thinking. In the degenerate state, when the victim of society, he tends to become a mere thinker, or, still worse, the parrot of other men’s thinking.

Emerson thought Whitman was the personification of the “American Scholar.” Apparently, I’m not alone in believing that Williams, not Pound, really picked up Walt Whitman’s poetic mantle. Despite “Pact,” Pound merely borrowed from Whitman’s style while rejecting his vision of America and the American people. For my taste, Pound’s vision is too wrapped up in books, too literary. Williams, while less obviously adopting Whitman’s style, seems to share his perception of everyday life and view of the lives of common people.

In doing so, Williams wrote poems that seem as relevant today as the day they were written, for they describe human nature at its most fundamental level, whether that be nature of politicians:


When blackguards and murderers
under cover of their offices
accuse the world of those villainies
which they themselves invent to
torture us-we have no choice
but to bend to their designs,
buck them or be trampled while
our thoughts gnaw, snap and bite
within us helplessly-unless
we learn from that to avoid
being as they are, how love
will rise out of its ashes if
we water it, tie up the slender
stem and keep the image of its
lively flower chiseled upon our minds.

In a world where our government seems bent on destroying other governments because they are part of an “evil-axis,” we can either “bend to their designs,” conceding to their vision of a capitalistic empire, give up our own life to oppose them, be tortured by our conscience because we’ve done nothing to depose them, or, as Williams seems to suggest, simply learn not to be like them, to love our fellow man, and, in doing so, to prove once again that the Christian concept of loving thy neighbor, even when he’s not part of your “chosen” group, can overcome seemingly impossible odds.

Even when describing abstract ideas like perfection, Williams managed to somehow remain true to his concept of “No ideas but in things:”


0 lovely apple!
beautifully and completely
hardly a contour marred-

perhaps a little
shrivelled at the top but that
aside perfect
in every detail! 0 lovely

apple! what a
deep and suffusing brown
mantles that
unspoiled surface! No one

has moved you
since I placed you on the porch
rail a month ago
to ripen.

No one. No one!

While ambiguous enough to lend itself to different interpretations, “Perfection” seems to suggest that perfection, particularly when admired from afar, is a meaningless concept. All things, at least all things of this world, seem to contain the seeds of destruction within themselves. The apple may have been nearly “perfect” when it was placed on the porch rail a month ago to ripen, but when allowed to ripen past its prime it is “perfectly” rotten. Strange how the “perfect romance,” particularly when people take it for granted that it is perfect, can turn bad over time. Best of all, although the poem recognizes the impermanence of "pefection," it does so with a lively sense of humor, adding perspective to the observation.

One of my favorite William’s poems is “The Bare Tree:”


The bare cherry tree
higher than the roof
last year produced
abundant fruit. But how
speak of fruit confronted
by that skeleton?
Though live it may be
there is no fruit on it.
Therefore chop it down
and use the wood
against this biting cold.

Obviously the poem questions the value of expediency. In the short run, it makes sense to cut down the tree because you’re bitterly cold, but in the long run you will miss the delicious cherries next spring. Unfortunately, more and more the American people seem to use short-term goals to judge everything. If our stock doesn’t double in three months it’s time to dump it. If it doesn’t make me happy “right now” why put up with it. By judging things merely by appearances, we often consider them less worthy than they really are. Finally, on yet another level, the poem suggests the very miracle of life itself, the annual rebirth of our world.

At his best, William Carlos Williams can almost help us to regain our faith in the human race, make us believe that there is hope for mankind if we but recognize people for who they really are.