ADIEU TO QUAINT MODERNISM

Name a Flower While You’re At It

show us your animal self in words
william carlos williams
show us the frustration and the sorrow and the anger
of the real man*
william carlos williams
the hunger the taking the eating
the enjoying the apology for
eating plums (cold)
william carlos williams
a novel in sixteen words
we can be done with it all
tomorrow at 6
i go to plum island
and leave this style
behind
forever

* William Carlos Williams (September 17, 1883—March 4, 1963) b. Rutherford, New Jersey. Father, William George Williams, a cologne distributor, was English. Traveled with mother, living in Geneva and Paris. While at University of Pennsylvania began a lifelong friendship with Ezra Pound and met H.D. Became acquainted with circle of writers and artists including Wallace Stevens, Mina Loy, Marcel Duchamp, and Alfred Kreymborg, editor of Others, to which Williams contributed regularly; frequented Walter Arensberg’s salon and Alfred Stieglitz’s 291 Gallery.  Met Louis Zukovsky in 1928; Zukovsky included poems by Williams in February 1931 issue of Poetry devoted to “Objectivist” poets; Objectivist Press published Williams’ Collected Poems 1921-1931 (1934). Through Pound, met James Laughlin, publisher of New Directions, which published most of his subsequent books.  Suffered heart attack in 1948. Met and correpsonded with Robert Creeley and Allen Ginsberg.

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6 Comments

  1. Nooch said,

    November 27, 2011 at 12:14 am

    I may be a big dummy,
    But I find this downright plummy!

  2. Mabool said,

    November 27, 2011 at 6:14 pm

    Was there never a man who
    schleps, sidles and segues
    nor yet another who
    bops, mosies and grooves?

  3. Scarriet Support said,

    November 27, 2011 at 10:21 pm

    As you will discover, a disgruntled upswing will indulge in mindless verbal assault and flattery in equal measure, praise and battery lashed out in some lairy onslaught, lambasting the innocent object of Scarriet Support’s ostensive affections.

    I only ‘it yer coz I luv ye

    We both know that Scarriet, you petulant protaganist sticking to the critical cognition of Carlos’s art being crappy, dismissing with the hitherto shared conventions, usual nicities, accepted decorum, academic tripe, and telling us what it is in terms adventurous and consistent, challenging and cheekily abrasive to the ear and eye used more to polite meaningful words connoting what it is we a readerly specis share as a human tracing through this thing called love in literate lettered elegance and an astoundingly repetative eloquence only you posses as Scarriet unsupported – without the SS.

    I only kill ’em coz I love yer

    …the threats, plots, menace, peril, risk, trials, tests, attempts and demands America’s uniquely misunderstood collegiate ju-ju telling us the unobfuscated truth of time, talk and the trope in which it’s wrapped, antique, your wisdom, be toppled, Scarriet.

    The addition to, alteration of, the semi-found doggerelistic invention, is similar in quality to Bill’s plum poem, a mischievous, ill-disposed, utterly corrupt, vicious, virulent and wicked preppy tri-state sounding critic with a green barrow wheelclunking along to the clangerous and complicated cognition that the Doc’s poetry is owt but a loada wank.

    I’m afraid, Scarriet.rom.com, the above combatitive statement is …four feats of a poetry bridage’s crappiest crafst-people doing it, you know, like a, like a verse machine man, doing it, you know.

    Fellas, I’m ready to get up and do my thing

    …you know (go ahead), movin’ and doin’ it, you know

    One, two, three, four!

    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)
    Stay on the scene, (get on up), like a verse machine

    You gotta have the feelin, (get on up)
    Sure as you’re born, (get on up)

    Get it together, right on, right on

    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)

    shake your money maker,
    Shake your money maker,
    Shake your money maker,

    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)

    Huh!

    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)

    Can we hit it like we did one more time, from the top
    Can we hit like that one more time
    (One more time!)
    One more time!
    Let’s hit it and quit! (Go ahead!)
    Can we hit it and quit? (Yeah!)
    Can we hit it and quit? (Yeah!)
    Can we hit it and quit? (Yeah!)
    Hit it!

    ~

    An unutterably pernicious, petty, poisonous, rancorous, resentful, spiteful and uncool piece of doggerel by Carlos there. How dare he you be so crappy Rutherford prep facing into a new century, millenia of tradition from which to find the new Jeruselum of contemporary poetics in America, where the hundreds of thousands of emigrants fleeing the end of thier world as they’d known it for thirteen more centuries than the New World where those seeking Equality, Freedom, Justice, Truth, the right to protect one’s property, Happiness and Free Hugs from the millions of marks, dolts, unintelligent foreigners, like You S aye, unsupported, without Scarriet Support doing all the walking.

    Show us your animal self in words
    exhibit the frustration, sorrow & anger
    of a real human being their ju-ju

    novel in sixteen words
    the hunger, talking and enjoyment

    eating
    the enjoyment and the apology

    eating cold plums

    cold carlos williams

    can we be done with it all
    and leave this carlos williams
    style behind forever

    tomorrow at 6

    i go to plum island and grift

    william

    Can I count it off? (Go ahead)

    I wanna count it off one more time now
    (Go ahead!)
    You wanna hear it like it did on the top fellas?
    (Yeah!)
    Hear it like it did on the top?
    (Yeah!)
    Hit it now!

    Get on up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)
    Get on up, (get on up)

    Stay on the scene, (get on up), like a foe-machine, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)

    Taste, (get on up)
    Being, (get on up)
    Taste, (get on up)
    Being, (get on up)

    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)
    Stay on the scene, (get on up), like a dough-machine, (get on up)

    You gotta have the feelin, (get on up)
    Sure as you’re born, (get on up)

    Get it together, right on, right on
    right on, right on, (right on, right on)
    right on, right on, (right on, right on)
    right on, right on, (right on, right on)

    Get up, (get on up)
    Get up, (get on up)

    And then, shake your money maker,
    Shake your money maker,
    Shake your money maker,
    Shake your money maker,
    Shake your money maker,

    like a verse machine man
    wanna take it one more time from the top

    wanna get into it, man,

    making manifestly what it is.

    T.S. Eliot.

    • thomasbrady said,

      November 28, 2011 at 9:02 pm

      Dear ___,

      Daisy Freid, a Poetry Foundation scribe, in yesterday’s Sunday Times Book Review compared WC Williams to Dante, saying he had shaped American language. Did he? Really?

      I’ve nothing against Bill, per se, but the over-praise is criminal.

      Tom

      • Mabool said,

        November 29, 2011 at 12:31 am

        There is a direct correlation between sound/music and the image constellation of any said work of art in that it barters the lag time of the initial stag tagging the pie squared and high fi fo fumbling of any garter be it snake or rake or fake taking into account that harmony is achievable on any one given note in any of many disxoursed horses so long as we understand that any context for sound should be referenced off the hillbilly repetoire of stary ie’d opus magnum big gun poets and not merely off the qoutidian reptilian festive register of unknown and unsown peots as we embark on the encantatory story of vestibules and vertiginous brain waving the rain function as we know it for really if one doubled the helix of felix and feliz navidad’s, then we come to understand that otherwise we would merely be standing in front of a canvas allowing for the instantaneous integration of time and mona lisa’s mustache — in other woreds: poetry does for sound and mounds what painting does to my big mama with one wickeed coconut smile ~ Hernan Cortexed, 1456, Salamanca

  4. Scall Jah said,

    November 28, 2011 at 11:21 am


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