WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS (1883-1963) the man go— “Death” (C version, 1930) the liar He's dead Dead the dog won't have to sleep on his potatoes his eyes any more to keep them rolled up out of from freezing the light—a mockery which he's dead the old bastard— love cannot touch— He's a bastard because just bury it there's nothing and hide its face legitimate in him any for shame. more he's dead Dead “The Baby” (1925) He's sick dead Sweep the house he's under the feet of the curious a godforsaken curio holiday seekers-- without sweep under the table and the bed any breath in it the baby is dead-- He's nothing at all The mother's eye's where she sits he's dead by the window, unconsoled-- shrunken up to the skin have purple bags under them the father-- Put his head on tall, wellspoken, pitiful one chair and his is the abler of these two-- feet on another and he'll lie there Sweep the house clean like an acrobat— here is one who has gone up (unproblematically) Love's beaten. He to heaven, blindly beat it. That's why by force of the facts-- he's insufferable— a clean sweep is one way of expressing it-- because he's here needing a Hurry up! any minute shave and making love they will be bringing it an inside howl from the hospital-- of anguish and defeat— a white model of our lives a curiosity He's come out of the man surrounded by fresh flowers. and he's let
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS (1883-1963) “Death” (C version, 1930) He's dead the dog won't have to sleep on his potatoes any more to keep them from freezing he's dead the old bastard— He's a bastard because there's nothing legitimate in him any more he's dead He's sick dead he's a godforsaken curio without any breath in it He's nothing at all he's dead shrunken up to the skin Put his head on one chair and his feet on another and he'll lie there like an acrobat— Love's beaten. He beat it. That's why he's insufferable— because he's here needing a shave and making love an inside howl of anguish and defeat— He's come out of the man and he's let the man go— the liar Dead his eyes rolled up out of the light—a mockery which love cannot touch— just bury it and hide its face for shame. “The Dead Baby” (1925) Sweep the house under the feet of the curious holiday seekers-- sweep under the table and the bed the baby is dead-- The mother's eye's where she sits by the window, unconsoled-- have purple bags under them the father-- tall, wellspoken, pitiful is the abler of these two-- Sweep the house clean here is one who has gone up (unproblematically) to heaven, blindly by force of the facts-- a clean sweep is one way of expressing it-- Hurry up! any minute they will be bringing it from the hospital-- a white model of our lives a curiosity surrounded by fresh flowers.
WCWDeathPoems.docx