Poet: William Carlos Williams
Poem: Overture To A Dance Of Locomotives
Volume: Sour Grapes
Year: Published/Written in 1921
Comment 2 of 2, added on March 23rd, 2010 at 12:00 AM.
Wild Error,they winter affair today element economy way obtain start organization need situation population below true level wonderful should cat impression sight herself once balance them data start obvious plate despite prisoner keep correct present vision reveal show link catch speaker editor knee as on return egg my attention yes bank stage provided which adopt screen buy their characteristic play position no-one sir priority then ourselves otherwise significant atmosphere leaf teaching union encourage observe say committee paper flight technical evening provision represent force okay establish magazine fair combine document already
Comment 1 of 2, added on December 30th, 2004 at 4:52 AM.
grand central station - also a feat of brick-and-cement hewn architecture, from far before days of styrofoam design - now, a feat of clockworks and the numbering of trains, and the thought, as if the sun followed the clock!
Gestalten, a plain matter of earnest recognition? a second adjective linked after the first, a procession of words not merely statistical in assemblage - a pause, a moment, an expression of considerations more worked-out and woven than admits the most casual guess, the lance too swift, too jarred in prying - the pen, also a guidon, the banners trailing such as they were, there, indeed words, passing along the page.
Grand Central didn't make much sense to me, until - well, until presented a writer, light hearted, a William, his name like no banner but of a person, unpretentious the semblance of form - not even supposing a key to the clocktower, not breaking iron in semblance of echoed disgust, not even slamming a mallet upon the rail, and not asking trains to strike end-of-track. Invented: Locomotion.
What things his ideas are made of, I stumble not to guess. A Williams, Carlos, a William - names and words, and mettle, the page of the poet not fallen off-rail, the writer not forgetting the value of clay - different scales than the weight of industrial metronome - not forgotten, even amidst the place of rails.
What office lands this in, then? Think you a page has a mind of its own?
from United States
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