26th May, 2010
CK Williams, the American poet, is in London today.
I very much hope to hear him read from his work.
You know when you’re walking down the street, or on the train home, and something happens, something tiny, and you’re not even sure if it was a ‘moment’ or just another bit of life’s white noise? And before you know it, your attention is elsewhere, and all that’s left is that sense of something not quite captured, something lost forever?
CK Williams captures that moment. He does mundane-to-universal in one deft flick of the pen. I adore him.
Here’s one to show you how marvellous he is. (I found it on the net, so I hope I’m not contravening any copyright laws.)
THE SINGING
by C. K. Williams
I was walking home down a hill near our house
on a balmy afternoon
under the blossoms
Of the pear trees that go flamboyantly mad here
every spring with
their burgeoning forth
on a balmy afternoon
under the blossoms
Of the pear trees that go flamboyantly mad here
every spring with
their burgeoning forth
When a young man turned in from a corner singing
no it was more of
a cadenced shouting
Most of which I couldn’t catch I thought because
the young man was
black speaking black
no it was more of
a cadenced shouting
Most of which I couldn’t catch I thought because
the young man was
black speaking black
It didn’t matter I could tell he was making his
song up which pleased
me he was nice-looking
Husky dressed in some style of big pants obviously
full of himself
hence his lyrical flowing over
song up which pleased
me he was nice-looking
Husky dressed in some style of big pants obviously
full of himself
hence his lyrical flowing over
We went along in the same direction then he noticed
me there almost
beside him and “Big”
He shouted-sang “Big” and I thought how droll
to have my height
incorporated in his song
me there almost
beside him and “Big”
He shouted-sang “Big” and I thought how droll
to have my height
incorporated in his song
So I smiled but the face of the young man showed nothing
he looked
in fact pointedly away
And his song changed “I’m not a nice person”
he chanted “I’m not
I’m not a nice person”
he looked
in fact pointedly away
And his song changed “I’m not a nice person”
he chanted “I’m not
I’m not a nice person”
No menace was meant I gathered no particular threat
but he did want
to be certain I knew
That if my smile implied I conceived of anything like concord
between us I should forget it
but he did want
to be certain I knew
That if my smile implied I conceived of anything like concord
between us I should forget it
That’s all nothing else happened his song became
indecipherable to
me again he arrived
Where he was going a house where a girl in braids
waited for him on
the porch that was all
indecipherable to
me again he arrived
Where he was going a house where a girl in braids
waited for him on
the porch that was all
No one saw no one heard all the unasked and
unanswered questions
were left where they were
It occurred to me to sing back “I’m not a nice
person either” but I
couldn’t come up with a tune
unanswered questions
were left where they were
It occurred to me to sing back “I’m not a nice
person either” but I
couldn’t come up with a tune
Besides I wouldn’t have meant it nor he have believed
it both of us
knew just where we were
In the duet we composed the equation we made
the conventions to
which we were condemned
it both of us
knew just where we were
In the duet we composed the equation we made
the conventions to
which we were condemned
Sometimes it feels even when no one is there that
someone something
is watching and listening
Someone to rectify redo remake this time again though
no one saw nor
heard no one was there
someone something
is watching and listening
Someone to rectify redo remake this time again though
no one saw nor
heard no one was there
A wonderful poem. A similar, if more universal, experience is recorded in a brilliant early Larkin:
Like the train’s beat
Swift language flutters the lips
Of the Polish airgirl in the corner seat,
The swinging and narrowing sun
Lights her eyelashes, shapes
Her sharp vivacity of bone.
Hair, wild and controlled, runs back:
And gestures like these English oaks
Flash past the windows of her foreign talk.
The train runs on through wilderness
Of cities. Still the hammered miles
Diversify behind her face.
And all humanity of interest
Before her angled beauty falls,
As whorling notes are pressed
In a bird’s throat, issuing meaningless
Through written skies; a voice
Watering a stony place.