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literature

William Carlos Williams

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Published: October 8, 2011
I cannot be a William Carlos Williams.
I cannot see the significance of a "wheel barrow,"
Or why it is significant enough to warrant two words from one.
I cannot understand the emphasis of color,
Or why it should matter whether the chickens are white or brown or red.
I cannot feel the strength of need for a wheelbarrow,
Or why this one in particular seems so irreplaceable.

But today brought a bicycle, rusting on the highway's edge.

Yellow bicycle, rusting
Under the sun:
How is it you,
Once built for two,
Have ended up with none?

I find my words will rollick in their own light, seriousness aside.
I cannot bring myself to write such things in tranquil lines.
I cannot convey such vast feelings in such small form.
I cannot be a William Carlos Williams.
But, just today, I can sympathize.
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I am the girl who hides between moth eaten paper backs And slips into bookstores and devours leather bound spines I am chloroform lips bitten down, red and rosy Ink stained finger tips that fold book pages between my pupils I'm the girl who drowns herself in coffee and cough drops While remaining curled between Tennyson and Steinbeck Wasting days wondering why grass is green And how it can be greener for others and not I Then I realized its all artificial food colouring And polystyrene picket fences Sticky notes yellowed at the edges reminding myself how to smile I've pasted them on my skin in makeshift paper Mache armour But l
© 2011 - 2019 since-then
I've never understood the fame behind the William Carlos Williams poem "The Red Wheelbarrow".
Now I kind of do?
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