0,00 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Blackmore Dennett
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
William Carlos Williams was still struggling to find his audience at the time that he published Sour Grapes and he was forced to pay for some, if not all, of the publishing expenses himself. As a book, it is highly representative of Williams's early writing. The book is filled out with improvisational pieces that Williams seems to have thrown together in the spare moments that he stole from his medical practice. However, this poetic improvisation produced remarkable language, which is evident in "A Widow's Lament in Springtime". and "Complaint".
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
SOUR GRAPES
A Book of Poems
by William Carlos Williams
Published 2019 by Blackmore Dennett
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Thank you for your purchase. If you enjoyed this work, please leave us a comment.
1 2 3 4 10 8 7 6 5 00 000
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE LATE SINGER
MARCH
BERKET AND THE STARS
A CELEBRATION
APRIL
A GOODNIGHT
OVERTURE TO A DANCE OF LOCOMOTIVES
ROMANCE MODERNE
THE DESOLATE FIELD
WILLOW POEM
APPROACH OF WINTER
JANUARY
BLIZZARD
TO WAKEN AN OLD LADY
WINTER TREES
COMPLAINT
THE COLD NIGHT
SPRING STORM
THE DELICACIES
THURSDAY
THE DARK DAY
TIME THE HANGMAN
TO A FRIEND
THE GENTLE MAN
THE SOUGHING WIND
SPRING
PLAY
LINES
THE POOR
COMPLETE DESTRUCTION
MEMORY OF APRIL
EPITAPH
DAISY
PRIMROSE
QUEEN-ANN’S-LACE
GREAT MULLEN
WAITING
THE HUNTER
ARRIVAL
TO A FRIEND CONCERNING SEVERAL LADIES
YOUTH AND BEAUTY
THE THINKER
THE DISPUTANTS
TULIP BED
THE BIRDS
THE NIGHTINGALES
SPOUTS
BLUEFLAGS
THE WIDOW’S LAMENT IN SPRINGTIME
LIGHT HEARTED WILLIAM
PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR
THE LONELY STREET
THE GREAT FIGURE
THE LATE SINGER
Here it is spring again
and I still a young man!
I am late at my singing.
The sparrow with the black rain on his breast
has been at his cadenzas for two weeks past:
What is it that is dragging at my heart?
The grass by the back door
is stiff with sap.
The old maples are opening
their branches of brown and yellow moth-flowers.
A moon hangs in the blue
in the early afternoons over the marshes.
I am late at my singing.
MARCH
I
Winter is long in this climate
and spring—a matter of a few days
only,—a flower or two picked
from mud or from among wet leaves
or at best against treacherous
bitterness of wind, and sky shining
teasingly, then closing in black
and sudden, with fierce jaws.
II
March,
you remind me of
the pyramids, our pyramids—
stript of the polished stone
that used to guard them!
March,
you are like Fra Angelico
at Fiesole, painting on plaster!
March,
you are like a band of
young poets that have not learned
the blessedness of warmth
(or have forgotten it).
At any rate—
I am moved to write poetry
for the warmth there is in it
and for the loneliness—
a poem that shall have you
in it March.
III
See!
Ashur-ban-i-pal,
the archer king, on horse-back,
in blue and yellow enamel!
with drawn bow—facing lions
standing on their hind legs,
fangs bared! his shafts
bristling in their necks!
Sacred bulls—dragons
in embossed brickwork
marching—in four tiers—
along the sacred way to
Nebuchadnezzar’s throne hall!
They shine in the sun,
they that have been marching—
marching under the dust of
ten thousand dirt years.
Now—
they are coming into bloom again!
See them!
marching still, bared by
the storms from my calendar
—winds that blow back the sand!
winds that enfilade dirt!
winds that by strange craft
have whipt up a black army
that by pick and shovel
bare a procession to
the god, Marduk!
Natives cursing and digging
for pay unearth dragons with
upright tails and sacred bulls
alternately—
in four tiers—
lining the way to an old altar!
Natives digging at old walls—
digging me warmth—digging me
sweet loneliness—
