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Sour Grapes
This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work.
56 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1921
38 people are currently reading
123 people want to read
About the author
William Carlos Williams
425 books827 followersWilliam Carlos Williams was an American poet closely associated with modernism and Imagism. He was also a pediatrician and general practitioner of medicine. Williams "worked harder at being a writer than he did at being a physician," wrote biographer Linda Wagner-Martin. During his long lifetime, Williams excelled both as a poet and a physician.
Although his primary occupation was as a doctor, Williams had a full literary career. His work consists of short stories, poems, plays, novels, critical essays, an autobiography, translations, and correspondence. He wrote at night and spent weekends in New York City with friends—writers and artists like the avant-garde painters Marcel Duchamp and Francis Picabia and the poets Wallace Stevens and Marianne Moore. He became involved in the Imagist movement but soon he began to develop opinions that differed from those of his poetic peers, Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot. Later in his life, Williams toured the United States giving poetry readings and lectures.
In May 1963, he was posthumously awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Pictures from Brueghel and Other Poems (1962) and the Gold Medal for Poetry of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. The Poetry Society of America continues to honor William Carlos Williams by presenting an annual award in his name for the best book of poetry published by a small, non-profit or university press.
Williams' house in Rutherford is now on the National Register of Historic Places. He was inducted into the New Jersey Hall of Fame in 2009.
Although his primary occupation was as a doctor, Williams had a full literary career. His work consists of short stories, poems, plays, novels, critical essays, an autobiography, translations, and correspondence. He wrote at night and spent weekends in New York City with friends—writers and artists like the avant-garde painters Marcel Duchamp and Francis Picabia and the poets Wallace Stevens and Marianne Moore. He became involved in the Imagist movement but soon he began to develop opinions that differed from those of his poetic peers, Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot. Later in his life, Williams toured the United States giving poetry readings and lectures.
In May 1963, he was posthumously awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Pictures from Brueghel and Other Poems (1962) and the Gold Medal for Poetry of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. The Poetry Society of America continues to honor William Carlos Williams by presenting an annual award in his name for the best book of poetry published by a small, non-profit or university press.
Williams' house in Rutherford is now on the National Register of Historic Places. He was inducted into the New Jersey Hall of Fame in 2009.
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Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews
February 14, 2018
When I am alone I am happy.
The air is cool. The sky is
flecked and splashed and wound
with colour. The crimson phalloi
of the sassafrass leaves
hang crowded before me
in shoals on the heavy branches.
When I reach my doorstep
I am greeted by
by the happy shrieks of my children
and my heart sinks.
I am crushed.
Are not my children as dear to me
as falling leaves or
must one become stupid
to grow older?
It seems much as if sorrow
has tripped up my heels.
Let us see, let us see!
What did I plan to say to her
when it should happen to me
as it has happened now.
The air is cool. The sky is
flecked and splashed and wound
with colour. The crimson phalloi
of the sassafrass leaves
hang crowded before me
in shoals on the heavy branches.
When I reach my doorstep
I am greeted by
by the happy shrieks of my children
and my heart sinks.
I am crushed.
Are not my children as dear to me
as falling leaves or
must one become stupid
to grow older?
It seems much as if sorrow
has tripped up my heels.
Let us see, let us see!
What did I plan to say to her
when it should happen to me
as it has happened now.
did-not-finish
March 26, 2018What’s with all the exclamation points, William? These poems left me absolutely cold. Bailed a quarter of the way in.
July 6, 2020
This 1921 poetry collection is Williams’ fourth, coming out early in his career -- shortly before his most well-known poem ("The Red Wheelbarrow" (1923)) and long before his most acclaimed collections -- Paterson [National Book Award in 1949] and Pictures from Brueghel (1962) [Pulitzer, 1963.] Williams was a full-time physician, and in this part of his career composing poems would have been a secondary pursuit. The 50-some poems of the collection are mostly free-verse imagist poems. The experimental and improvisational nature of the included poems has been both criticized and lauded.
As I mentioned, imagism is the primary approach in this collection, focusing on vivid descriptiveness -- particularly in the visual sense. The subject matter is largely natural, but it does include a not inconsequential venture into human activity. A recurring theme in the collection is seasonality. [While these poems aren’t haiku, haiku readers will recognize the importance of seasons in that form.] That’s not the only connection to the Japanese style. Much of William’s work features economy, a fundamental trait in haiku. Few of these poems have the verbal terseness of haiku (i.e. that few words) but they share that form’s austerity of meaning (i.e. sticking to description and not getting involved in analysis or judgement.)
I enjoyed this collection. It might not be William’s most polished work, but that doesn’t necessarily make it undeserving of reflection.
As I mentioned, imagism is the primary approach in this collection, focusing on vivid descriptiveness -- particularly in the visual sense. The subject matter is largely natural, but it does include a not inconsequential venture into human activity. A recurring theme in the collection is seasonality. [While these poems aren’t haiku, haiku readers will recognize the importance of seasons in that form.] That’s not the only connection to the Japanese style. Much of William’s work features economy, a fundamental trait in haiku. Few of these poems have the verbal terseness of haiku (i.e. that few words) but they share that form’s austerity of meaning (i.e. sticking to description and not getting involved in analysis or judgement.)
I enjoyed this collection. It might not be William’s most polished work, but that doesn’t necessarily make it undeserving of reflection.
June 18, 2023
The images are pleasing but lack broader significance.
January 18, 2022
The collection begins with a celebration of spring and a procession of months - specifically the spring months, March and April...
Winter is long in this climate
and spring - a matter of a few days
only, - a flower or two picked
from mud or from among wet leaves
or at best against treacherous
bitterness of wind, and sky shining
teasingly, then closing in black
and sudden, with fierce jaws.
- March, I
A middle-northern March, now as always -
gusts from the South broken against cold winds -
bu from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,
it moves - not into April - into a second March...
- A Celebration
I had no rest against that
springtime!
The pounding of the hoofs on the
raw sod
stayed with me half through the night.
I awoke smiling but tired.
- April
In "A Celebration", too, the poet presents the reader with a flood of months, presenting the months not as months as from a calendar, but attributing characteristics to them... July being "a young woman / from Iceland"; February being a "falling spray of snowflakes" (and a falling spray of snowflakes being "a handful of dead Februaries"); June being "a yellow cup I'll not name"; etc...
And then something unexpected happens. The poet either bypasses the summer, bringing the reader to the "Approach of Winter". Indeed, time appears to be a preoccupation of the poet's in this collection, with its descriptions of night that "passes - and never passes -" (A Goodnight), of great clocks with hands that go "round and round" (Overture to a Dance of Locomotives)...
This break from continuity is consistent with the poet's perception of time as presented in the poem "A Celebration" (with its progression from March into "not April" but "a second March"). Likewise the poem "March", in which the poet seems to experience the spring again and again, or at least creates the impression of experiencing the spring again and again with obsessive repetition. (Of course the poem is about more than March, more than spring, with its descriptions of "Ashur-ban-i-pal, / the archer king" and "Nebuchadnezzar's throne hall") ...
My second spring -
passed in a monastery
with plaster walls - in Fiesole
on the hill above Florence.
My second spring - painted
a virgin - in a blue aureole
sitting on a three-legged stool,
arms crossed...
- March, IV
But! now for the battle!
Not for murder - now for the real thing!
My third springtime is approaching!
Winds!
lean, serious as a virgin,
seeking, seeking the flowers of March.
- March, V
The poet is undoubtedly trying to elongate the spring which, as described in the poem "March", lasts only "a matter of a few days". Perhaps by prolonging the spring the poet intends to draw out the pleasure he derives from spring. And, moreover, by prolonging the spring he hopes to delay the Winter which, as described in "March", lasts "long in this climate"...
It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
...
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground
- Willow Poem
The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together...
- Approach of Winter
Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window...
- January
This collection includes the prose-poem, "The Delicacies",
I appreciate the poet's use of metaphor...
Childhood is a toad in the garden, a
happy toad. All toads are happy
and belong in gardens....
- Romance Moderne
Old age is
a flight of small
cheeping birds
skimming
bare trees
above a snow glaze.
- To Waken an Old Lady
Night is a room
darkened for lovers...
- Complaint
One of my favourite poems...
I have had my dream - like others -
and it has come to nothing, so that
I remain now carelessly
with feet planted on the ground
and look up at the sky -
feeling my clothes about me,
the weight of my body in my shoes,
the rim of my hat, air passing in and out
at my nose - and decide to dream no more.
- Thursday
One of my favourite passages...
And you may be sure
not one lead will be left itself
from the ground
and become fast to a twig again.
- The Hunter
Winter is long in this climate
and spring - a matter of a few days
only, - a flower or two picked
from mud or from among wet leaves
or at best against treacherous
bitterness of wind, and sky shining
teasingly, then closing in black
and sudden, with fierce jaws.
- March, I
A middle-northern March, now as always -
gusts from the South broken against cold winds -
bu from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide,
it moves - not into April - into a second March...
- A Celebration
I had no rest against that
springtime!
The pounding of the hoofs on the
raw sod
stayed with me half through the night.
I awoke smiling but tired.
- April
In "A Celebration", too, the poet presents the reader with a flood of months, presenting the months not as months as from a calendar, but attributing characteristics to them... July being "a young woman / from Iceland"; February being a "falling spray of snowflakes" (and a falling spray of snowflakes being "a handful of dead Februaries"); June being "a yellow cup I'll not name"; etc...
And then something unexpected happens. The poet either bypasses the summer, bringing the reader to the "Approach of Winter". Indeed, time appears to be a preoccupation of the poet's in this collection, with its descriptions of night that "passes - and never passes -" (A Goodnight), of great clocks with hands that go "round and round" (Overture to a Dance of Locomotives)...
This break from continuity is consistent with the poet's perception of time as presented in the poem "A Celebration" (with its progression from March into "not April" but "a second March"). Likewise the poem "March", in which the poet seems to experience the spring again and again, or at least creates the impression of experiencing the spring again and again with obsessive repetition. (Of course the poem is about more than March, more than spring, with its descriptions of "Ashur-ban-i-pal, / the archer king" and "Nebuchadnezzar's throne hall") ...
My second spring -
passed in a monastery
with plaster walls - in Fiesole
on the hill above Florence.
My second spring - painted
a virgin - in a blue aureole
sitting on a three-legged stool,
arms crossed...
- March, IV
But! now for the battle!
Not for murder - now for the real thing!
My third springtime is approaching!
Winds!
lean, serious as a virgin,
seeking, seeking the flowers of March.
- March, V
The poet is undoubtedly trying to elongate the spring which, as described in the poem "March", lasts only "a matter of a few days". Perhaps by prolonging the spring the poet intends to draw out the pleasure he derives from spring. And, moreover, by prolonging the spring he hopes to delay the Winter which, as described in "March", lasts "long in this climate"...
It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
...
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground
- Willow Poem
The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together...
- Approach of Winter
Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window...
- January
This collection includes the prose-poem, "The Delicacies",
I appreciate the poet's use of metaphor...
Childhood is a toad in the garden, a
happy toad. All toads are happy
and belong in gardens....
- Romance Moderne
Old age is
a flight of small
cheeping birds
skimming
bare trees
above a snow glaze.
- To Waken an Old Lady
Night is a room
darkened for lovers...
- Complaint
One of my favourite poems...
I have had my dream - like others -
and it has come to nothing, so that
I remain now carelessly
with feet planted on the ground
and look up at the sky -
feeling my clothes about me,
the weight of my body in my shoes,
the rim of my hat, air passing in and out
at my nose - and decide to dream no more.
- Thursday
One of my favourite passages...
And you may be sure
not one lead will be left itself
from the ground
and become fast to a twig again.
- The Hunter
June 22, 2019
I used to be like, "Wow, slow down, Andrew Marvell! You're taking things a little too fast!"
Now I'm like, "Take your foot off the brake, William Carlos!"
The N-word was infuriating. I don't wanna hear, "Oh, that was the times." It pissed me off but I finished the slim volume anyway.
Now I'm like, "Take your foot off the brake, William Carlos!"
The N-word was infuriating. I don't wanna hear, "Oh, that was the times." It pissed me off but I finished the slim volume anyway.
March 6, 2023
Overview: Do you have an hour to spare for a little poetry. Mr. Williams is one of the poets from the early 1900's. Let's see what these have going for us.
Likes: These were rather whimsical and fun.
Conclusion: This was a rather light-hearted read. Enjoy the trip with your young ones.
Likes: These were rather whimsical and fun.
Conclusion: This was a rather light-hearted read. Enjoy the trip with your young ones.
March 25, 2017
Poor poetry, but good for fans of obvious overtures and devices.
June 17, 2020
Favourites:
April
The Desolate Field
Willow Poem
January
Thursday
Epitaph
Primrose
Waiting
April
The Desolate Field
Willow Poem
January
Thursday
Epitaph
Primrose
Waiting
June 17, 2022
This might be my favorite so far by the good doctor. I loooved it!! So many brilliant pearls! So many! And a number 5. In gold. On a red firetruck!!
June 20, 2022
O my brother, you redfaced, living man
October 2, 2025
Doc Williams was still establishing his poetic voice when he wrote this. Sour Grapes has its effective moments, but Williams’ work blossomed later in life.
February 4, 2016
I can't believe I just gave William Carlos Williams, one of my favorite poets, a three star rating. But this volume of poetry was written before he found his imagist groove, although he seems to be closing in on it. Also, the Kindle version has a bad habit of repeating the last line of a poem on a page on the first line of the next page. Some of the poems were better than others: "April;" "Complaint," about being called out to help a great woman birth her tenth child; and "Queen Anne's Lace," which anticipates "Spring and All."
December 30, 2013
William Carlos Williams' descriptive eye shines in this overview of the world he observes, especially as regards the beauty of the natural world.
January 1, 2014
perhaps I read these too fast, not letting the poems breath, but I wasn't captured by these poems the way other Williams poems arrest me.
May 5, 2015
OK for a day read.
June 11, 2014
Poems
great poems
you will love it
totally recommend
the extra words to write because I need at least 18 words
great poems
you will love it
totally recommend
the extra words to write because I need at least 18 words
July 25, 2015
sweet, sad, maybe tart, but not sour
Spring
O my grey hairs!
You are truly white as plum blossoms.
Spring
O my grey hairs!
You are truly white as plum blossoms.
Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews