William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow"

[Jack]

I'm sure a lot of people here've read "The Red Wheelbarrow," a poem by William Carlos Williams.

This weekend I'm holed up in my room because I'm sick and the weather is awful, so I'm reading a lot. I've come across this poem again. Here it is for those unfamiliar.

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

I wonder... What, exactly, makes this poem so great (so great that it's reprinted and discussed basically everywhere)? Why does it stay in the readers' minds so long after they've read it?

I'm throwing that out there for conversation. That is all.

[jim stone]

http://chiffboard.mati.ca/viewtopic.php ... ens#460029

It's cold here too, hope things go well, Jim

P.S. Like that consistent life group.
I know some of those people, e.g. Richard Stith
and I have corresponded about abortion law.

[A-Musing]

Colorful Nostalgia.

[I.D.10-t]

W. C. Williams was part of a newer movement in American poetry that wanted to create striking visual imagery that was different than many of the poets of the time. He also looked at the rhythm of American speech and tried to convey it in his poems using spacing and line breaks. He is kind of held up as an example of a style and that poem of his is one of the easiest to demonstrate the style.

But it has been a while since I have read up on him.

[Jack]

http://chiffboard.mati.ca/viewtopic.php ... ens#460029

It's cold here too, hope things go well, Jim

Thank you. I searched ealier before I posted but I must not have searched well enough. Thanks so much.

[Congratulations]

Things that are important to me about The Red Wheelbarrow:

--As has been stated, it's probably the most famous imagist poem. It's literally nothing but an image. "No ideas but in things," I think that was Mr. Williams. Most people think all of WC Williams' work was exactly like that, but that's far from the truth. He had lots of what I would consider very complicated poems, but he brought an organicness--or an honesty, maybe--to a poem that not many people possess.

--The rhythm of the poem is like fireworks, in my ear. Not talking about the meter, because I don't think like that. But I can feel the rhythm of this poem in my chest when I read it, and I think it's mostly the enjambment that does it. Notice "wheel / barrow" and "rain / water," both compound words broken across a line. It's subtle but it makes the poem. When I read this poem for the first time, I'd never seen anything like that (and I'd bet not many people had seen anything like it when it was first published).

Here's my favorite Williams poem:

Poem

As the cat
climbed over
the top of

the jamcloset
first the right
forefoot

carefully
then the hind
stepped down

into the pit of
the empty
flowerpot

-W. C. Williams

The rhythm in this poem is immaculate. You can not only see the way the cat is moving in your mind, you can feel it. It's not only real, it's part of you. Or that's how I feel about it.

--But I think the reason it's so often anthologized is that it is exactly opposite what most people think of when they think poetry. Most people think flashy, impenetrable language that has ambiguous meaning and is long and boring. This poem is none of that. Well, some people might think it's boring, I guess.

[Congratulations]

While there's a poetry thread, I'd like to share my newest poet-obsession. I love John Berryman with my whole body. We read the first 77 Dream Songs in my poetry writing class this semester, and it's totally changed the way I think about poems and about language. I think I'm the only person in the class that liked them at all. Anyway, here's my favorite dream song:

Dream Song 29
by John Berryman


There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.

And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.

If you'd like to hear him read the first dream song (and I'd suggest it, because Berryman is one of the most engaging readers I've heard), you can go here. I'd also suggest you read the Wiki about the dream songs if you're interested in reading them. They're a little involved, and it might clear some key points up.

Interesting thing about Berryman: where Williams is widely anthologized (Red Wheelbarrow, This Is Just to Say, etc), Berryman is absent from most anthologies. My theory on the matter is that Berryman is viewed as a "difficult" poet (he is, I suppose), and so teachers avoid teaching him. But so many of the poets we read today in anthologies cite Berryman as an influence, it's hard to think that we can really get a grip on the nature of American poetry while so thoroughly ignoring Berryman's work. I think it's tragic. Sure he's difficult--everyone in my 300-level poetry class agrees--but I think he's worth the effort. He has gone places that no one before or after has gone.

[dubhlinn]

Sure he's difficult--everyone in my 300-level poetry class agrees--but I think he's worth the effort. He has gone places that no one before or after has gone.

I dunno..

http://www.undermilkwood.net/poetry_fernhill.html

The youth of today..

Slan,
D.

[Congratulations]

Sure he's difficult--everyone in my 300-level poetry class agrees--but I think he's worth the effort. He has gone places that no one before or after has gone.

I dunno..

http://www.undermilkwood.net/poetry_fernhill.html

The youth of today..

Slan,
D.

I've never taken to Mr. Thomas' verse. Perhaps I'm too young. Or perhaps too American? Nonetheless, I will continue to give him a taste from time to time, just to see if my opinion has changed.

[carrie]

Dream Song 29
by John Berryman


There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.

And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.

I love that.

Carol

[dubhlinn]

Try this,



http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15599

Nothing to do with Welsh men..or women.


A celebrated American dude ( and rightly so!)

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15717

And then, above everybody, so far above, beyond the clouds...

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15529


That will do for starters.

Slan,
D.

[Congratulations]

I'll be trying on the Clifton (new to me! yay!), but Robert Frost I don't care for. Yeats is a personal hero.

[cowtime]

Perhaps I'm too young. Or perhaps too American?

Or never grew up on a farm? It sure takes me back....

And then, above everybody, so far above, beyond the clouds...

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15529

Oh I LOVE it! Did you ever hear the version that Clandestine set to music?

[Congratulations]

Perhaps I'm too young. Or perhaps too American?

Or never grew up on a farm? It sure takes me back....

That's a possibility, too.

[Dale]

Dream Song 29
by John Berryman


There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.

And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody's missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.

I love that.

Carol

As much as I love poetry, I rarely am able to memorize poems. This poem, however, I can recite from memory.