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In an era in which serious poetry seemed an expression of the intellect and geared toward eliciting robust and animated discussion, Williams’ poem suggests the power not of the intellect but of the imagination—the subtler energy each person has to respond at unexpected moments to the simple beauties all around.
The poem, in its simplicity and its directness, is an invitation to stay alert for those unexpected moments when a random gathering of things becomes miraculous for one moment. The poem resists the notion that things must mean something, teach a lesson, or serve as backdrop for an important human interaction. Things in literature are typically compelled to act, to exert some force, and to add the texture of verisimilitude; things typically carry the weight of symbolism or create immediacy by creating a context. Thus, it is tempting here to assume that the things in Williams’ poem must symbolize something deeper; for example, the wheelbarrow might symbolize a farm; the white might symbolize innocence; the chickens might symbolize life; and the rain water might symbolize baptism—the next step would be to assemble these interpretative bits into a broad thematic argument. However, in this case, doing that would neglect the most potent energy Williams celebrates: the imagination. Within the energy of the unleashed imagination, the stuff strewn transcends the limits of shape, color, weight, and texture. The imagination finds in this accidental and random glimpse something worth noting, shaping into a poem, and remembering into art.
The poem shares a simple encounter with the outdoors, where the objects reflect a recent rain and where white chickens peck about with careless energy. It appears Williams offers a narrow image. Unlike the sweeping nature epics of the Romantics a century earlier that restlessly prowled about the natural landscape looking for those broad expressions of nature—mountains, daffodils, the ocean, trees—that in their magnificence and their singularity reminded readers of the sublimity of a natural world most keenly felt within the lines of the poem. The poet served as moderator, pointing out to the reader the wonders of nature and then distilling from those natural phenomena appropriate lessons.
Williams disdains such expectations. He dispenses with the poet as some necessary interlocutor and rejects the conventional notion that the poet serves as guide to share those manifestations of nature’s power. Rather here Williams reminds the reader that nature is not solely revealed in mountain ranges or oceans stretching to the horizon, but rather in the everyday toss of objects all around. Wheelbarrows and chickens were not the stuff of the great Romantic poems about the power, beauty, and glory of nature. Rather, for Williams, nature offers millions of such objects; any one of them could ignite in any person willing to engage nature with an open and grasping eye the stunning miracle of interaction; the moment when nature, in its boundless generosity, shares that bounty with those both eager and receptive.
This poem exists in a vacuum. The poet offers no story to anchor the objects in time or space. The poem refuses to distill from the wheelbarrow and the chickens a lesson or some valuable insight into human behavior. Rather the poem celebrates what is left when at last a person sheds free of the burden to make sense of the world, the need to formulate every object in nature into some convenient lesson.
The poem celebrates a moment, but the epiphany comes without explanatory footnotes and without a weighty sense of its own significance. The emotional wallop of the images the poet records had weight for him. It is not important we share that same sense of redemption. In recording his own snapshot of the world, the poet is encouraging others to find their own snapshot.
What the poem argues in everything but words is the importance of those honest moments when the world suddenly gives the eye pause and creates a stunning and unexpected experience of beauty. The poem offers then a sweet innocent celebration of the urgent possibilities of every moment and gifts the reader with the anticipation that sometime, somewhere, they will surely experience a similarly radiant moment. Nothing in the images here will last—the rain water will dry up, the wheelbarrow will rust, and the chickens will scatter. It is only that magical moment that the alert eye of the poet happened to catch that, in turn, makes the burden of life that much easier to bear as it offers the gift of anticipation.
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By William Carlos Williams