Paterson (1963)

This was difficult certainly, but also beautiful. The images here were memorable and often touching, with fascinating artifacts such as letters and news pieces scattered throughout. I have no doubt that this book is one of the reasons that some people hate poetry, because it is frustrating at many points, but I think it's also worthwhile. It's one I'm going to have to go back and reread in full a few months from now. I should say that some of my classmates found this extremely sexist at points, but for the most part I simply disagreed with that assessment. For me, this is a journey searching for identity, particularly in line with the artist. I enjoyed it verymuch, though I feel Williams should have made it a bit more reader-friendly overall. ( )

A book length poem. Complicated. It is about a city or a man, or an embodiment, or a combination of the public as autobiography. Williams cared about people, and the oppressed. (For example, "Indians" [102], and an endless parade of suffering women.) Layered understandings -- "man in himself is a city". Lots of exclamation points. Still, or besides, he also stooped, really stooped, to the idiocy some "artistes" -- perhaps most of the professionals, driven by the fear of actually laboring in the vineyards where actual tomatoes or pumpkins, or hollow gourds, grow -- resort, perhaps excusably. For example [224], he blithers about "poetry" and drops meaningless names [222]. These are "points" about ideas with no point.

A splendidly long poem, with (sometimes annoying, but more often fascinating) prose interjections. It's the variable foot--whatever it is--that counts. Just remember:

"I never told you to read it.
let erlone REread it. I didn't
say it wuz ! ! henjoyable readin."

Although, much of it is, in truth, quite henjoyable. Hell, now I'm doing it. What was it with some of the modernists--Pound and Williams especially, I think--and puttin on the dialect? ( )