Dedication For A Plot Of Ground
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presence of Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married; lost her husband and with her five year old son sailed for New York in a two-master; was driven to the Azores; ran adrift on Fire Island shoal, met her second husband in a Brooklyn boarding house, went with him to Puerto Rico bore three more children, lost her second husband, lived hard for eight years in St.
Thomas,
Puerto Rico,
San Domingo, followed the oldest son to New York, lost her daughter, lost her "baby," seized the two boys of the oldest son by the second marriage mothered them — they being motherless — fought for them against the other grandmother and the aunts, brought them here summer after summer, defended herself here against thieves, storms, sun, fire, against flies, against girls that came smelling about, against drought, against weeds, storm-tides, neighbors, weasels that stole her chickens, against the weakness of her own hands, against the growing strength of the boys, against wind, against the stones, against trespassers, against rents, against her own mind.
She grubbed this earth with her own hands, domineered over this grass plot, blackguarded her oldest son into buying it, lived here fifteen years, attained a final loneliness and —If you can bring nothing to this place but your carcass, keep out.
William Carlos Williams
Other author posts
Nantucket
Flowers through the windowlavender and yellowchanged by white curtains –Smell of cleanliness – Sunshine of late afternoon –On the glass traya glass pitcher, the tumblerturned down, by whicha key is lying – And the immaculate white bed
Young Sycamore
I must tell you this young treewhose round and firm trunkbetween the wetpavement and the gutter(where wateris trickling) risesbodilyinto the air withone undulantthrust half its height-and thendividing and waningsending outyoung branches onall side...
The Dance
In Breughel's great picture, The Kermess,the dancers go round, they go round andaround, the squeal and the blare and thetweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddlestipping their bellies, (round as the thick-sided glasses whose wash they impound)t...
The Widows Lament In Springtime
Sorrow is my own yardwhere the new grassflames as it has flamedoften before but notwith the cold firethat closes round me this year Thirtyfive yearsI lived with my husband The plumtree is white todaywith masses of flowers Masses of ...
