Εμφάνιση αναρτήσεων με ετικέτα William Carlos Williams. Εμφάνιση όλων των αναρτήσεων
Εμφάνιση αναρτήσεων με ετικέτα William Carlos Williams. Εμφάνιση όλων των αναρτήσεων

Κυριακή 5 Μαΐου 2019

William Carlos Williams: Sonnet in Search of an Author




Nude bodies like peeled logs
sometimes give off a sweetest
odor, man and woman

under the trees in full excess
matching the cushion of

aromatic pine-drift fallen
threaded with trailing woodbine
a sonnet might be made of it

Might be made of it! odor of excess
odor of pine needles, odor of
peeled logs, odor of no odor
other than trailing woodbine that

has no odor, odor of a nude woman
sometimes, odor of a man.

William Carlos Williams: Nantucket




Flowers through the window
lavender and yellow

changed by white curtains –
Smell of cleanliness –

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

Τετάρτη 29 Αυγούστου 2018

William Carlos Williams: The Botticellian Trees




The alphabet of
the trees

is fading in the
song of the leaves

the crossing
bars of thin

letters that spelled
winter

and the cold
have been illuminated

with
pointed green—

by the rain and sun—
The strict simple

principles of
straight branches

are being modified
by pinched-out

ifs of color, devout
conditions

the smiles of love—
……

unit the stript
sentences

move as a woman’s
limbs under a cloth

and praise from secrecy
quick with desire

love’s ascendancy
in summer—

In summer the song
sings itself

above the muffles words—

William Carlos Williams: These




are the desolate, dark weeks
when nature in its barrenness
equals the stupidity of man.

The year plunges into night
and the heart plunges
lower than night

to an empty, windswept place
without sun, stars or moon
but a peculiar light as of thought

that spins a dark fire -
whirling upon itself until,
in the cold, it kindles

to make a man aware of nothing
that he knows, not loneliness
itself - Not a ghost but

would be embraced - emptiness
despair - (They
whine and whistle) among

the flashes and booms of war;
houses of whose rooms
the cold is greater than can be thought,

the people gone that we loved,
the beds lying empty, the couches
damp, the chairs unused -

Hide it away somewhere
out of mind, let it get to roots
and grow, unrelated to jealous

ears and eyes - for itself.
In this mine they come to dig - all.
Is this the counterfoil to sweetest

music? The source of poetry that
seeing the clock stopped, says,
The clock has stopped

that ticked yesterday so well?
and hears the sound of lakewater
splashing - that is now stone.

William Carlos Williams: Seafarer




The sea will wash in
but the rocks-jagged ribs
riding the cloth of foam
or a knob or pinnacles
           with gannets-
are the stubborn man.

He invites the storm, he
lives by it! instinct
with fears that are not fears
but prickles of ecstacy,
a secret liquor, a fire
that inflames his blood
to coldness so that the rocks
seem rather to leap
at the sea than the sea
to envelope them. They strain
forward to grasp ships
or even the sky itself that
bends down to be torn
upon them. To which he says,
It is I! I who am the rocks!
Without me nothing laughs.

Κυριακή 22 Απριλίου 2018

Ezra Pound: [Stupidity and ignorance all the way through]


Allen Ginsberg & Ezra Pound (with Fernanda Pivano – taken by Ettore Sottsass)

Allen: “So explained to him – “You remember I was telling you about hearing Blake‘s voice-?
He hesitated and then pursed his mouth, nodded up and down slightly, looking away.
– “But I didn’t tell it coherently.” – so described to him the occasion – “a series of moments of altered modes of consciousness over a period of weeks, etc.” – ending “no way of presenting that except through things external perceived in that state” and so continued explaining how his attention to specific perceptions & W(illiam)C(arlos)W(illiams)’ s “No ideas but in things” had been great help to me in finding language and balancing my mind – and to many young poets – and asked “am I making sense to you?”
“Yes,” he replied finally, and then mumbled “but my own work does not make sense’ [or, “but I haven’t made sense”]
I had asked him before if he would like to come to give a reading in the U.S. at Buffalo or S(an) F(rancisco), say, he replied, “Too late – “
“Too late for what? – for us or for your voice?” I laughed and continued, explaining mine and our ((Robert) Creeley, etc) debt to his language perceptions – speaking specifically of the sequence of phanopoeic images – “soapsmooth stone posts” – even his irritations and angers characteristic, humors, dramatic, as manifest in procession as time mosaic.
“(Basil) Bunting told me.” said Pound, “that there was too little presentation and too much reference” – referring to things not presenting them.
I replied that in the last year Bunting had told me to look at Pound because I had too many words, and showed Pound as model for economy in presentation of sensory phenomena, via words…So Pound’s work, I concluded to him, had been in “Praxis of perception, ground I could walk on.”
“A mess”, he said.
“What, you or the Cantos or me?”
“My writing – stupidity and ignorance all the way through,” he said. “Stupidity and ignorance.”



Ezra Pound & William Carlos Williams

“For the ear – Williams told me,” I continued, “in 1961 – we were talking about prosody, I’d asked him to explain your prosody to me – in general, something toward approximation of quantitative – anyway Williams said, ‘Pound has a mystical ear’ – did he ever tell you that?”
“No”, said Pound, “he never said that to me” – smiling almost shyly and pleased – eyes averted – but smiling, almost curious and childlike.
“Well I’m reporting it to you now seven years later – the judgment of the tender-eyed Doctor that you had a ‘mystical ear’ – not gaseous mystical he meant – but a natural ear for changes of rhythm and tone.
I continued explaining the concrete value of his perceptions manifested in phrasing, as reference points for my own sensory perceptions – I added that as humor – HUMOR – the ancient humours – his irritations against Buddhists, Taoists and Jews – fitted into place, despite his intentions, as part of the drama, the theater, the presentation, record of flux of mind-consciousness…
“The intention was bad – that’s the trouble – anything I’ve done has been an accident – any good has been spoiled by my intentions – the preoccupation with irrelevant and stupid things -” Pound said this quietly, rusty voiced like an old child, looked directly in my eye while pronouncing “intention”.
“Ah well, what I’m trying to tell you – what I came here for all this time – was to give you my blessing then, because despite your disillusion – unless you want to be messiah – then you’d have to be a Buddhist to be a perfect Messiah” (he smiled) – “But I’m a Buddhist Jew – perceptions have been strengthened by the series of practical exact language models which are scattered thruout the Cantos like stepping stones – ground for me to occupy, walk on – so that despite your intentions, the practical effect has been to clarify my perceptions – and, anyway, now do you accept my blessing?”
He hesitated, opening his mouth like an old turtle.
“I do,” he said – “but my worst mistake was the stupid suburban prejudice of anti-Semitism, all along, that spoiled everything – “..
“Well no, because anyone with any sense can see it as a humour, in that sense part of the drama – you manifest the process of thoughts – make a model of the consciousness and anti-Semitism is your fuck-up, like not liking Buddhists, but it’s part of the model as it proceeds – and the great accomplishment was to make a working model of your mind – I mean nobody cares if it’s Ezra Pound’s mind – it is a mind, like all our minds, and that’s never been done before – so you made a working model all along, with all the dramatic imperfections, fuck-ups – anyone with sense can always see the crazy part and see the perfect clear lucid perception-language-ground-“


allenginsberg.org

Τρίτη 19 Δεκεμβρίου 2017

Allen Ginsberg: Γραμμένο στ’ όνειρό μου απ’ τον Ου.Κ. Ουίλιαμς




«Καθώς
βαστάς

μία κοινή
Αλήθεια

Κοινώς γνωστή
ως πόθος

Καμί’ ανάγκη
να τον

μασκαρέψεις
ως ομορφιά

Καμί’ ανάγκη
να στρεβλώσεις

ό,τι δεν είναι
συμβατικό

ώστε να γίνει
κατανοητό

Διάλεξε
τη μύτη σου

τα μάτια τα αυτιά
τη γλώσσα

φύλο και
μυαλό

για να τα δείξεις
στον κόσμο

Παίξ’ τα
όλα για όλα

στην
ακρίβειά σου

Άκου
τον εαυτό σου

μίλα
στον εαυτό σου

και θα το κάνουν επίσης
κι οι άλλοι

ευτυχείς
ανακουφισμένοι

απ’ το βάρος—
τη δική τους

σκέψη
και πένθος

Ό,τι αρχίνησε
ως πόθος

θα καταλήξει
ως κάτι σοφότερο»



Μπαοντίνγκ, Κίνα
23 Νοεμβρίου 1984


Μετάφραση: Βασίλης Πανδής

Πρώτη δημοσίευση: Φράκταλ

Πέμπτη 9 Φεβρουαρίου 2017

William Carlos Williams: A Love Song




What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet—
I lie here thinking of you.

The stain of love
Is upon the world.
Yellow, yellow, yellow,
It eats into the leaves,
Smears with saffron
The horned branches that lean
Heavily
Against a smooth purple sky.

There is no light—
Only a honey-thick stain
That drips from leaf to leaf
And limb to limb
Spoiling the colours
Of the whole world.

I am alone.
The weight of love
Has buoyed me up
Till my head
Knocks against the sky.

See me!
My hair is dripping with nectar—
Starlings carry it
On their black wings.
See, at last
My arms and my hands
Are lying idle.

How can I tell
If I shall ever love you again


As I do now?

William Carlos Williams: Complaint




They call me and I go.
It is a frozen road
past midnight, a dust
of snow caught
in the rigid wheeltracks.
The door opens.
I smile, enter and
shake off the cold.
Here is a great woman
on her side in the bed.
She is sick,
perhaps vomiting,
perhaps laboring
to give birth to
a tenth child. Joy! Joy!
Night is a room
darkened for lovers,
through the jalousies the sun
has sent one golden needle!
I pick the hair from her eyes
and watch her misery
with compassion.

Τετάρτη 1 Φεβρουαρίου 2017

William Carlos Williams: Love




Love is twain, it is not single,
Gold and silver mixed to one,
Passion ‘tis and pain which mingle
Glist’ring then for aye undone.

Pain it is not; wondering pity
Dies or e’er the pang is fled;
Passion ‘tis not, foul and gritty,
Born one instant, instant dead.

Love is twain, it is not single,
Gold and silver mixed to one,
Passion ‘tis and pain which mingle
Glist’ring then for aye undone.

William Carlos Williams: Marriage




So different, this man
And this woman:
A stream flowing
In a field.

Τρίτη 31 Ιανουαρίου 2017

William Carlos Williams: To a Poor Old Woman




 munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand

They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her

You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand

Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her

William Carlos Williams: Smell




Oh strong-ridged and deeply hollowed
nose of mine! what will you not be smelling?
What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose,
always indiscriminate, always unashamed,
and now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggled
poplars: a festering pulp on the wet earth
beneath them. With what deep thirst
we quicken our desires
to that rank odor of a passing springtime!
Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardors
for something less unlovely? What girl will care
for us, do you think, if we continue in these ways?
Must you taste everything? Must you know everything?
Must you have a part in everything?

William Carlos Williams: Spring Storm




The sky has given over
its bitterness.
Out of the dark change
all day long
rain falls and falls
as if it would never end.
Still the snow keeps
its hold on the ground.
But water, water
from a thousand runnels!
It collects swiftly,
dappled with black
cuts a way for itself
through green ice in the gutters.
Drop after drop it falls
from the withered grass-stems
of the overhanging embankment.

William Carlos Williams: Approach of Winter




The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together,
bending all,
the leaves flutter drily
and refuse to let go
or driven like hail
stream bitterly out to one side
and fall
where the salvias, hard carmine,—
like no leaf that ever was—
edge the bare garden.

William Carlos Williams: January




Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
                                  Play louder.
You will not succeed. I am
bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
                                  And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.

William Carlos Williams: This Is Just To Say




I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold