William Carlos Williams, poet of the ordinary, wrote a few early poems that he titled “Pastoral,” a common enough title for poems that praise an ideal state of life. But Williams scandalized literary tastes by filling his Pastorals not with shepherds and green hills, but images of slum houses and old men walking in the gutter.
Williams’ entire poetic mission was to illuminate the beauty of the ordinary, to reveal the glory of the mundane. His particular subjects tended to be the marginalized and neglected, the forgotten and unsung, as his first pastoral demonstrates:
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 yard 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.
The purpose of this blog echoes the purpose of Williams’ poetics–to illuminate the beauty of the common. After rereading Williams’ poem over Christmas, I wrote the following riff to praise the unsung heroics of young mothers. Here it is, inspired partly by an Advent sermon on the character of the Virgin Mary, who “treasured all these things in her heart” (Luke 2:51):
Mother’s Pastoral
When I was younger
it was plain to me
I must make something of myself.
Older now
I walk night hallways
rocking the eyes
of the very young:
house out of line with hopes
the rooms cluttered
with toys, laundry piles, dishes,
old dreams gone awry;
my fortune and mansions
built now of blankets
and parts of couches, all,
if I am fortunate,
smeared with boyish grins
that properly treasured
please me best
of all gifts.Who could ever
believe this
of vast import to the kingdom?