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,
sleepplumless.
— through a tree-ripened ovary metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones 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

Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her

“Winter Plum Trees”

All the PLUMMITY PLUMMITY PLUMS, OK, IS THIS ENOUGH PLUMS FOR YOU??
I MEAN, I LIKE INVENTED THE IMAGIST MOVEMENT AND ALL YOU WANT ARE PLUMS?!
TELL ME TO MAKE ICEBOX CONTENT, I WON’T DO IT BECAUSE I HAVE INTEGRITY!!
THIS IS JUST TO SAY I DARE YOU TO GIVE ME THAT NOTE, I FUCKING DARE YOU!!!
complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold icebox.