Kora in Hell: Improvisations XXII
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a little hand brushing away dreams. Eyes open. Here’s a new world.
There is nothing the sky-serpent will not eat. Sometimes it stops to gnaw Fujiyama, sometimes to slip its long and softly clasping tongue about the body of a sleeping child who smiles thinking its mother is lifting it.
My little son’s improvisations exceed min: a round stone to him’s a loaf of bread or “this hen could lay a dozen golden eggs.” Birds fly about his bedstead; giants lean over him with hungry jaws; bears roam the farm by summer and are killed and quartered at a thought. There are interminable stories at eating time full of bizarre imagery, true grotesques, pigs that change to dogs in the telling, cows that sing, roosters that become mountains and oceans that fill a soup plate. There are groans and growls, dun clouds and sunshine mixed in a huge phantasmagoria that never rests, never ceased to unfold into—the day’s poor little happenings. Not that alone. He has music which I have not. His tunes follow no scale, no rhythm—alone the mood in odd ramblings up and down, over and over with a rigor of invention that rises beyond the power to follow except in some more obvious flight. Never have I heard so crushing a critique as those desolate inventions, involved half-hymns, after his first visit to a Christian Sunday school.
This song is to Phyllis! By this deep snow I know it’s springtime, not ring time! Good God no! The screaming brat’s a sheep bleating, the rattling crib-side sheep shaking a bush. We are young! We are happy! says Colin. What’s an icy room and the sun not up? This song is to Phyllis. Reproduction lets death in, says Joyce. Rot, say I. to Phyllis this song is!
That which is known has value only by virtue of the dark. This cannot be otherwise. A thing known passes out of the mind into the muscles, the will is quit of it, save only when set into vibration by the forces of darkness opposed to it.
Source: Imaginations (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1970)
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Poet William Carlos Williams 1883–1963
POET’S REGION U.S., Mid-Atlantic
SCHOOL / PERIOD Imagist
Poetic Terms Prose Poem
Poems by William Carlos Williams
More poems by William Carlos Williams (25 poems)
- Flowers by the Sea
- It Is a Living Coral
- Kora in Hell: Improvisations II
- Kora in Hell: Improvisations XI
- Kora in Hell: Improvisations XIV
- Kora in Hell: Improvisations XXVII
- Love Song
- Queen-Anne’s Lace
- Sonnet in Search of an Author
- The crowd at the ball game
- The Great Figure
- The Red Wheelbarrow
- The Widow’s Lament in Springtime
- This Is Just To Say
- To a Poor Old Woman
- To Elsie
- Winter Trees