William Carlos Williams
Charles Olson
This semester I'm taking a William Carlos Williams seminar. The first creative writing assignment (one of few, since most of the writing will be critical / analytical) was to write poems based on his famous saying, "No ideas but in things." Williams essentially started the Objectivist movement that took place in the early 20th century, and inspired Charles Olson's projectivist poetry (made famous by his statement on poetics, Projective Verse). Here are some of the poems I wrote for the assignment. Some of the attempts are straight up Objectivist-style, at least consciously I wrote them out, but Williams did stray from the objectivist style at points in his life, and I decided to add some variation to some of the poems, which are easy to spot, I believe. A couple of the last small poetry segments are taken from a journal; they were written in late August in Boston.
Written on September 5:
Mind Painting
Deep purple ripples are
pushed along by wind,
a calm grace on these cracked,
dried arms; dried stalks
sprout from the center--
the pond is like a face,
with facial hair, jigsaw boulders,
cracked too, but darker brown,
a brown, of late summer,
that creates that scene,
just like all these things here.
Look--watercolor shadows!
Voices
The first fountain turned off yesterday.
These passing trucks will never turn off.
Moving along pedestrian paths, they
have rumble grumble engines.
The engine of the power box, grey like seagulls,
hums in its electric fan voice, without falter.
I stay silent, as does Matt, who reads about
criminology out of a big book that looks important.
My gut has a voice of its own.
So does the pen above the gut,
and the branches above the pen,
moaning in the breeze.
The second fountain cackles incessantly.
This blue table has the greatest voice
of all right now--it has actually learned
to shut up.
Displacement
Over on the other t able
there is a bunch of cords, tangled,
yellow like ear wax, or microwaves,
electrified jaundice behind an oven door.
Here, my fingers are so red and scarred,
and they are peeling red, like apples;
there are specks of blood above the cuticles,
a close inspection is like staring at steak.
Over on the other table, a pencil sharpener
rests, and how many of these appliances--
dusty, ancient--have been abandoned this year?
Here, my Poland Spring water bottle is held;
it may just be tap water, but it's the best tap
I have ever had.
Thick cream walls are on all sides,
dusted, and busted, my messenger bag
is on only one side, and the soles
of my shoes tap tap tap the floor.
I think of these last things and am,
fortunately, lost.
Eyes
The audio-visual office is both
hearable and seeable.
Let me describe how I see.
My fingers see cylindrical pen.
My hands see smooth-faced notebook paper.
My arms feel smooth stick of counter-top.
Elbow? Well it's blinded,
by some red and white poetry book.
My beard is brown, but I can't see it.
It watches my blue shirt flirtatiously.
My hat sees a million dandruff flakes
as tidal white in deep dark hair ocean.
These glasses see nothing on their own,
or maybe everything on their own,
but my eyes abuse them regularly,
like a child holding a parent's hand.
My bag, it sits still, and watches
my eyes, like a malnourished puppy
waiting for its master's acknowledgment.
The Room
There is a room
right over there
and although I'm here
I know that room
exists.
5 = 2 + 3
Chocolate metal
that is
three-sided
opens the brown doors--
each flat
and gritty.
Behind all these things
secrets
wait, quiet.
Secrets in the form
of great
beeping blips,
that not even I
can know
with these eyes.
Duty
I
The word on the page,
it is composed, like an environment,
or home, of particles,
particulars, peculiars:
two computers sit soft spoken,
unused, beyond a wall.
Many walls are here, and they
are like boxes, like I am
being boxes in, at least intact.
Yet there is not much duty
to be found in a canker sore.
It is probably a cherry-red sore
with an off-setting look, in the ilk
that is similar to smiling and
clowns, or hated memories of my father.
Another living body breathes nearby.
Is this duty, then?
Does duty mean accompany?
II
One memory screams quite loud: laundry;
it is instantly flushed.
Sweeping sound behind me.
Floor is smooth, polished,
like the night sky viewed
from a meadow.
Now there is clunking,
a dreary, mysterious pounding--
books, books, books!
This is the library's basement--
there is life down here,
so there must be answers.
Written on September 6:
Bag as Womb
Frilled edges
brown or tan
with haunting
insides:
book stolen from store:
Newport: An Exciting Experiment—
also a lot of siblings
Brian Evenson’s
& Williams’
& Deep Economy
stuck deep in there
somewhere
Color coded notebook
every-color binder
Marx-Engels Reader
pressed taut to one side
in symbiosis
Metallic strap support
glimmers the light from
library ceiling
No punctuation on bag;
no writing, no brand—
just an empty pill bottle
(Dante) at the very bottom
with Ezra Pound
(Virgil) in form of VHS tape:
Voices and Visions
Bag of gifts sprawled across
hallucinogenic pattern
carpet
somewhere in Korea on
methamphetamines
and the carpet is like an ocean—
Hallway Minus Walls
Roger Williams University Library, the Learning Commons
Computer
Computer Computer
Computer
Computers line up like soldiers,
Waiting to be abused by prying
Fingers, all white—minus ethnicity
Minus walls minus color or
Variation, like Puritans in Massachusetts
Computer too, incomplete
Without keyboard, but keyboards here
Are black, with color, without color
Like someone from Maine
Racially confused
Like someone from this school
Racially isolated
Every object here is a statue
Or ceramic pot, waiting to be stolen
The countertop we ignore has strange pattern
Mellow creaminess with brushstroke texture
Yet smooth, smooth, computer smooth
All stares concentrated, contracted pose:
Lips conform to one position, like statues
Not museum though, just hallway,
Minus walls—yellow amber light
Ambience with mechanical noise,
Contractions, severe look,
Concentration—warm outside,
People there too, walking, but mostly
Green branches, dangling and dancing
Calm and Scarred
Spider bite on face itches,
If that is what it is
It is rooted deeply like a birch,
Thin but straight, rough, packing punch
Red boil fault line
Caught several days ago
“Did you get into a fight?”
“Oh, that. Woke up with it on me.”
Red puffiness draws view downward
To stomach like kettle drum
Back on my head, the hair grows
back quicker than once imagined,
In a way descriptively magical
It is still dark brown and still requires care
Dandruff shampoo in shower
Orange gooey bargain shampoo above
(you know the type)
And then ‘course satin breeze conditioner
For satin breeze conditioning
Skull still not cured, just scarred,
Deep rivets like trenches, like
Nihilism—“once you pop you can’t stop”
Or maybe just Hinduism:
“As if in a dream, the couple leaves in the morning, not before paying obeisance to the neermadalam tree, standing royally in the yard, its flower gently caressing the woman who longed for its touch.”
Or maybe just Hinduism
Is sky turn white to blue
Over the course of three hours:
Mugginess evaporated
And now it is pleasant outside,
Gardening weather
Stanley Kunitz weather
(with dead scalp skin flurries)
Written Sometime in Late August
Outside the MFA
On another lump-white day
And two lovers atop
A bench, lay, cause
Me to stop, and
All this green, is it
For me?
A soft, lamentable shade,
Hand in hand, swift as
With the blue sea.
But I see no sea,
No wolf pack waiting
In the scrub bush,
The tide a mask over the howl.
…
Very dark, hark hark
the cell phone rings.
We answer but in mist;
as a shield, born into this.
Under Frost’s moonlight,
there is not another puff left
in his cigar smile;
out of spite
we acted like children
and in turn
given children’s guilt.
My back could have
ached. It does a slight.
Jazzy moonlit music.
--had I not fucked
so many days in a row,
I’d stand up straight,
no hunch to the gait,
but those flower petal women
dance like fingertip golf-claps.
