Paterson (Revised Edition) by William Carlos Williams Page A
Authors: William Carlos Williams
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the colony) Jan de la Montagne, a Frenchman, stood laughing heartily at the fun, and rubbing his right arm, so much delight he took in such scenes. He then ordered him (the brave) to be taken out of the fort, and the soldiers bringing him to the Beaver’s Path, he dancing the Kinte Kaye all the time, mutilated him, and at last cut off his head.
There stood at the same time, 24 or 25 female savages, who had been taken prisoners, at the north-west corner of the fort: they held up their arms, and in their language exclaimed. “For shame! for shame! such unheard of cruelty was never known, or even thought of, among us.”
They made money of sea-shells. Bird feathers. Beaver skins. When a priest died and was buried they encased him with such wealth as he possessed. The Dutch dug up the body, stole the furs and left the carcass to the wolves that roamed the woods.
Doc, listen — fiftyish, a grimy hand
pushing back the cap: In gold —
Volunteers of America
I got
a woman outside I want to marry, will
you give her a blood test?
From 1869 to 1879 several crossed the falls on a tight rope (in the old pictures the crowd, below, on the dry rocks in their short sleeves and summer dresses look more like water-lilies or penguins than men and women staring up at them): De Lave, Harry Leslie and Geo. Dobbs—the last carrying a boy upon his shoulders. Fleetwood Miles, a semi-lunatic, announced that he too would perform the feat but could not be found when the crowd had assembled.
The place sweats of staleness and of rot
a back-house stench . a
library stench
It is summer! stinking summer
Escape from it—but not by running
away. Not by “composition.” Embrace the
foulness
—the being taut, balanced between
eternities
A spectator on Morris Mountain, when Leslie had gone out with a cookstove strapped to his back—tugged at one of the guy-ropes, either out of malice or idleness, so that he almost fell off. Having carried the stove to the center of the rope he kindled a fire in it, cooked an omelet and ate it. It rained that night so that the later performance had to be postponed.
But on Monday he did the Washerwoman’s Frolic, in female attire, staggering drunkenly across the chasm, going backward, hopping on one foot and at the rope’s center lay down on his side. He retired after that having “busted” his tights—to the cottage above for repairs.
The progress of the events was transmitted over the new telephone to the city from the tower of the water works. The boy, Tommy Walker, was the real hero of these adventures.
And as reverie gains and
your joints loosen
the trick’s done!
Day is covered and we see you—
but not alone!
drunk and bedraggled to release
the strictness of beauty
under a sky full of stars
Beautiful thing
and a slow moon —
The car
had stopped long since
when the others
came and dragged those out
who had you there
indifferent
to whatever the anesthetic
Beautiful Thing
might slum away the bars—
Reek of it!
What does it matter?
could set free
only the one thing—
But you!
—in your white lace dress
. . .
Haunted by your beauty (I said),
exalted and not easily to be attained, the
whole scene is haunted:
Take off your clothes,
(I said)
Haunted, the quietness of your face
is a quietness, real
out of no book.
Your clothes (I said) quickly, while
your beauty is attainable.
Put them on the chair
(I said. Then in a fury, for which I am
ashamed)
You smell as though you need
a bath. Take off your clothes and purify
yourself . .
And let me purify myself
—to look at you,
to look at you (I said)
(Then, my anger rising) TAKE OFF YOUR
CLOTHES! I didn’t ask you
to take off your skin . I said your
clothes, your clothes. You smell
like a whore. I ask you to bathe in my
opinions, the astonishing virtue of your
lost body (I said) .
—that you might
send me
There stood at the same time, 24 or 25 female savages, who had been taken prisoners, at the north-west corner of the fort: they held up their arms, and in their language exclaimed. “For shame! for shame! such unheard of cruelty was never known, or even thought of, among us.”
They made money of sea-shells. Bird feathers. Beaver skins. When a priest died and was buried they encased him with such wealth as he possessed. The Dutch dug up the body, stole the furs and left the carcass to the wolves that roamed the woods.
Doc, listen — fiftyish, a grimy hand
pushing back the cap: In gold —
Volunteers of America
I got
a woman outside I want to marry, will
you give her a blood test?
From 1869 to 1879 several crossed the falls on a tight rope (in the old pictures the crowd, below, on the dry rocks in their short sleeves and summer dresses look more like water-lilies or penguins than men and women staring up at them): De Lave, Harry Leslie and Geo. Dobbs—the last carrying a boy upon his shoulders. Fleetwood Miles, a semi-lunatic, announced that he too would perform the feat but could not be found when the crowd had assembled.
The place sweats of staleness and of rot
a back-house stench . a
library stench
It is summer! stinking summer
Escape from it—but not by running
away. Not by “composition.” Embrace the
foulness
—the being taut, balanced between
eternities
A spectator on Morris Mountain, when Leslie had gone out with a cookstove strapped to his back—tugged at one of the guy-ropes, either out of malice or idleness, so that he almost fell off. Having carried the stove to the center of the rope he kindled a fire in it, cooked an omelet and ate it. It rained that night so that the later performance had to be postponed.
But on Monday he did the Washerwoman’s Frolic, in female attire, staggering drunkenly across the chasm, going backward, hopping on one foot and at the rope’s center lay down on his side. He retired after that having “busted” his tights—to the cottage above for repairs.
The progress of the events was transmitted over the new telephone to the city from the tower of the water works. The boy, Tommy Walker, was the real hero of these adventures.
And as reverie gains and
your joints loosen
the trick’s done!
Day is covered and we see you—
but not alone!
drunk and bedraggled to release
the strictness of beauty
under a sky full of stars
Beautiful thing
and a slow moon —
The car
had stopped long since
when the others
came and dragged those out
who had you there
indifferent
to whatever the anesthetic
Beautiful Thing
might slum away the bars—
Reek of it!
What does it matter?
could set free
only the one thing—
But you!
—in your white lace dress
. . .
Haunted by your beauty (I said),
exalted and not easily to be attained, the
whole scene is haunted:
Take off your clothes,
(I said)
Haunted, the quietness of your face
is a quietness, real
out of no book.
Your clothes (I said) quickly, while
your beauty is attainable.
Put them on the chair
(I said. Then in a fury, for which I am
ashamed)
You smell as though you need
a bath. Take off your clothes and purify
yourself . .
And let me purify myself
—to look at you,
to look at you (I said)
(Then, my anger rising) TAKE OFF YOUR
CLOTHES! I didn’t ask you
to take off your skin . I said your
clothes, your clothes. You smell
like a whore. I ask you to bathe in my
opinions, the astonishing virtue of your
lost body (I said) .
—that you might
send me
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