Poems William Carlos Williams Revised After Being Told By His Agent to “Do More Plums Content!”

“The Red Wheelbarrow Plum”

so much depends

upon

a red wheel plum

barrow just one weird, loose red plum missing a sticker

glazed with rain refrigerator

water condensation

beside the white

chickens moldy strawberries

- - -

“Marriage”

So different, this man nectarine

And this woman peach:

A stream fruit basket overflowing

In a field of discarded plum pits.

- - -

“Danse Russe”

If I when my wife is sleeping

and the baby and a plum I named Kathleen

are sleeping

and the sun is a flame-white disc big goddamn YELLOW plum what wow I went there

in silken mists

above shining plum trees or wait, do they grow on vines? Hold on, let me check,—

if I in my north room

dance naked while juggling seven plums, grotesquely

before my mirror plum TREE — that’s right I looked it up, it’s trees, we’re all good

waving my shirt a torn-out page with “This Is Just to Say” round my head

and singing softly to myself:

“I am lonely, lonely plummy, plummy.

I was born to be lonely a plum-hit wonder,

I am best so for I’ve peaked in peak plum season!”

If I admire my arms, my face,

my shoulders, flanks, buttocks juicy erotic plums

against the yellow drawn shades plum meat,—

Who shall say I am not

the happy genius of my household? remembered as “He was like, a doctor who wrote about plums, right? We read that poem in 9th grade! I didn’t get it.”

- - -

“Love Song”

I lie here thinking of your feedback, which is great, here’s a basket of plums to say thanks:—

the stain of love plum juice

is upon the world my shirt!

Yellow, yellow, yellow

it eats into the leaves my writerly pride to know that I’m just a plums content creator now,

smears with saffron sad old plums AKA prunes AKA my future

the horned branches misshapen plum stems that lean

heavily

against a smooth purple sky plum skin!

There is no light

only a honey-thick stain

that drips from plum leaf to plum leaf

and plum tree limb to hey look another plum tree limb

spoiling the colors

of the whole world that only wants to read “The Waste Land” now, whatever, I don’t care—

You that’s right, T.S., I mean you, take it personally far off there under

the wine-red selvage of the west! plums, that’s right, they’re my niche now, have you heard?

- - -

“A Sort of a Plum Song”

Let the snake plum wait under

his weed a big-ass pile of underripe purple sour fruits in the grocery crate

and the writing

be of words literally only 30-calorie plant spheres, slow and quick cold and sweet, sharp

to strike plum, quiet to wait plum,

sleep plumless.

— through a tree-ripened ovary metaphor to reconcile

the people and the stone s fruits.

Compose more plums media. (No ideas

but in things the genus prunus) Invent more species of plums!

Saxifrage is my flower new word for plums, see Ezra, I’m “making it new” ya turd that splits

the rocks plummy plummy plum flesh, which is apparently all I am now, it’s fine I’m fine.

- - -

“ To a Poor Old Woman Plum”

munching a plum on

the street a paper bag

of them in her hand

They taste good to her

They taste good

to her. They taste

good to her

You can see it by

the way she gives herself

to the one half

sucked out in her hand

Comforted

a solace of ripe plums

seeming to fill the air

They taste good to her

- - -

“Winter Plum Trees”