Poetry Thursday: William Carlos Williams

I feel like I'm regressing. I try to write something simple and I can't think of the words. Like "regressing." I sat here for a few minutes, flipping through my brain's rolodex: backpedaling, sliding, tiptoeing. I finally said to Lou, "What's that word for going backwards? The one you usually use for children?" And then I snapped my fingers and said, "Oh, never mind. I've got it. 'Regressing.'"

My Poetry Thursday selection is a famous one by William Carlos Williams, just because I think that he is so flippin' cool and because I love that he was busy, but made the time to write his poetry in his prescription pads. He is the kind of doctor who wouldn't doubtfully ask, "Are they any good?" when I hauled stack of books into his office, for me to read while I waited for my appointment. He's the type of doctor who would plop down onto the exam table beside me, and we would flip through the books together. He might even scribble in the margins.

So, I've picked William Carlos Williams because he was committed to his poetry (and his regular life) and because, though his words are simple, they are the grandest of exhales, menthol-scented, hurricane sighs that could just blow you over. I'm eager to read more of his work.

The Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

To participate in this celebration of poetry and read other fabulous poems, visit Liz Elayne's Poetry Thursday site.