Pastoral -- William Carlos Williams When I was younger it was plain to me I must make something of myself. Older now I walk back streets admiring the houses of the very poor: roof out of line with sides the yards cluttered with old chicken wire, ashes, furniture gone wrong; the fences and outhouses built of barrel-staves and parts of boxes, all, if I am fortunate, smeared a bluish green that properly weathered pleases me best of all colors. No one will believe this of vast import to the nation.
Pastoral no one will believe this of vast import to the nation -- William Carlos Williams it’s true. the images and lives that obsess us are just leaves falling to a pond’s mottled surface: they swirl in reds and yellows for a moment then sink, swallowed, while the important air, stitched with busyness, rushes past. but there’s a beauty to this unremarkable collection, i think, a sense that we are part of some strange and urgent return to an original stillness.
Suggested soundtrack: Anything by Chopin.