That's not quite what Williams said. Still, things are safer than people. Nobody argues much about the meaning of things. I've not read any complaints about the (mis)-representation of, let's say, scissors. Here, for instance, is an old pair of millinery shears made in India. They don't sell them here any more. I don't know why, but I was told that they are no longer imported. They are beautiful with brass handles. They look handmade. They came in about four different sizes. I want the size larger than these. Too late. But the scissors are a romance to me, a song of the exotic which is why I love them so. There are much better scissors than these for cutting, and I like them, too. Look at some of the scissor made in Japan, for instance. They are beautiful and precise. Maybe I'll get a pair to photograph just to show you. Neither these nor those, though, are anything like the scissors we had around the house when I was a kid. And, of course, that is why I like them. They sing to me across all that made up time and space. And yet there they are. . . poetry.
Now I can hear the complaints about my (mis)representation of things.
"A Sort of Song"
Let the snake wait under
his weed
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
sleepless.
—through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.
William Carlos Williams
My friend has been re-reading Paterson. About three times since right before Christmas.
ReplyDeleteWe believe, Dr. Williams failed miserably mostly at his theory about that, no Ideas but in Things, thing.
But that is what it's about ain't it? Failure. Which ties to something I just read while waiting for your post -- how's that, I was reading while waiting for you post. I was reading Keith Waldrop whose book, Transcedental Studies: A Trilogy, won a National Book Award. This however is not from that book.
POTENTIAL RANDOM
Many books have been destroyed, carelessly or by design. Lost, burnt, forgotten, volumes drop out of existence, along with—more easily disposed of—proofs never pulled, unpublished manuscripts, notes for books, plans and proposals for things to be written, collected, put into books. The number of projects unaccomplished in history must be enormous.
And much larger, almost infinite, the realm of projects unattempted, never started, what no one ever thought to try.
My doctrine would derive, not from wisdom concealed by anxious arhats in caves beneath impassable Himalayas, nor from a chain of unwritten instruction passed guru-wise down centuries. It would remain in a world beneath notice, too obvious to be considered. Thus, secret.
The world as it lies open here, waiting for me to fail.
I do not need to know your real name.
This much seems obvious, that as we move along the path, slowly but certainly the path replaces us. And also, just as strands in the vitreous humour cloud the visual field, words stray, making our thought opaque.
My maternal Grandma worked in the Wiss scissor factory. I still seek out Wiss scissor factory when she was a girl. I love the tiniest of them and pinking shears. and the boxes they used to come in as well. and oh my--- thimbles :-)
oy. that post got screwed up -- she worked in the factory when she was a girl.
ReplyDeletehttp://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2491645/nothing_but_the_thing_itself_in_poetry.html?cat=10
ReplyDeleteNothing is less real than realism. Details are confusing. It is only by selection, by elimination, by emphasis, that we get at the real meaning of things. Georgia O'Keefe
ReplyDeleteL, I liked the first way. I spent time trying to figure it out. Just figured it was poetical.
ReplyDeleteZ, Thanks for the link. No things but in poetry.
R, Yes, we are defined by the selections we make.