Seriously, William Carlos Williams?

When I was a senior in high school, my friend Greg (whom I called Gregor after Gregor Mendel) and I formulated a plan to defraud the Art world. He would be an "artist" and make pretentious abstract crap. I would be an art critic and bang the drum loudly for his work. We would split the proceeds of the sale of his work and on our deathbeds confess everything. The plan was inspired by our study of William Carlos Williams.

William Carlos Williams was an American poet and pediatrician born in New Jersey in 1883. He was involved in the early modernist movement in New York and was friends with many of its leaders, including Ezra Pound and James Joyce. Although he wrote many pieces, including novels, short stories, essays, and criticism, he is mostly known for his poems. These are what led us to hatch our plan. I am not suggesting that WCW was a swindler (my preferred job title). I'm just saying that as we sat in class listening to the dreaded Ms. Cho (she hated us) rhapsodize over his poetry, we came to the conclusion that he was either a genius or a total fraud.

Perhaps his most famous poem is "XXII, " more commonly referred to as "The Red Wheelbarrow":

So much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

See? That's a really lovely sentence. It's simple and almost terse but creates a practically tangible image and is beautiful to read aloud. It succeeds as an attempt to create an American image. It succeeds in breaking away from British stress patterns. Is it also "real, not just "realism," but reality itself?" I suppose the image is, so well done, you. Here's the part where I jump out of the boat: What exactly depends upon a little red wheelbarrow? What is this "so much" you refer to? The answer, my friends, is nothing. Nothing "depends upon a little red wheelbarrow." And that's why although I believe that WCW is a master of the English language, I ultimately think he's full of it. Read through his work, and you can project anything you want onto it. Is it sad? hopeful? forlorn? resolute? Who the hell knows?

However, if you can stop yourself from thinking about anything beyond the loveliness of his words and imagery, he's quite good. This is one of my favorites:

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold