An imagined open letter from the justifiably disgruntled wife of poet William Carlos Williams, the man who wrote this famed poem:
I have eaten
that were in
you were probably
they were delicious
and so cold
Dear literary critics:
You guys are assholes.
Did you even read the poem you claim is so brilliant? First off, my husband ate all my fruit, and then instead of apologizing in person he left a post-it note admitting that he did it, but that he had a good reason which was basically “I wanted to“. And not only does he eat all my plums, also he ends the post-it telling me how goddam delicious they are. I know how delicious plums are. That’s why I was saving them for breakfast.
You people read this poem and love it, but really it’s just a not-very-apologetic-apology from a man confessing to mild burglary. And who do you think had to go out and buy more plums for breakfast because someone promised his parents I’d make plum pancakes for everyone? Not Mr. I’m-far-too-poetic-to-go-to-Walmart, I’ll tell you that. Frankly, I don’t even think plum pancakes are a real thing. They tasted terrible and I’m guessing he just made them up because he’s “poetic and whimsical” and so I ended up having to apologize for the shitty pancakes that I didn’t even want to make.
And then the whole world is like, “DID YOU SEE THIS APOLOGY LETTER? IT IS THE GREATEST MODERN POEM EVER!” Just – what? No. IT DOESN’T EVEN RHYME.
Frankly, I expected that people reading the apology would be more sympathetic, like, “That guy stole your fruit and then told you how awesome it was? What a dick“. But instead everyone is all “GENIUS! ENCORE!” and now my husband is utterly out of control. This morning he climbed up into the tree in the front yard wearing only a bathrobe (my bathrobe – because he’s not content to just steal my breakfast, apparently) and he refused to come down because he claims I “purposely” destroyed his latest poem. It was not a poem. It was our grocery list.
I told him that no one wants a poem about kitty litter and two-ply toilet paper but he said I don’t understand poetry and that he couldn’t hear me anyway because he was too busy writing a poem about how “trees are very scratchy” and at this point I don’t even know anymore. Apparently everything is a poem now.
Here’s a poem I just made for you : There once was a girl from Nantucket. I wonder if she has some plums I can borrow. The end.
Oh, Christ. I just found a leaf on the table with a note scrawled on it reading: “This is just to say that I broke the cat when I fell out of the tree. Forgive me. I fell so fast and Mittens was so old.”
Jesus, people. Just stop encouraging him.
Hugs, Mrs. William Carlos Willams
And now, the weekly wrap-up of awesomeness:
Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):
- Mugs are 40% off if you enter SAVING4TAXES code at check-out. I recommend this mug or this one.
- People always ask how to see the newest stuff. Click here.
- Kick-ass stuff I pinned.
- I may have teared up a bit. In a good way.
- Kashann Kilson wins the internet.
Shit you should buy or steal because it’s awesome:
This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by the lovely and funny Dave Tank, whose new memoir The Year of the Roses is available right now. I just bought a copy myself. It’s the true story of Dave spending his thirties traveling the world, always one step away from grasping success and happiness. When his mother dies unexpectedly, he has to leave his life in Paris to return home to face an unsure reality without his best friend. Dave walks away from his career to take a year to put his life back in order. In that year, he finds the most unlikely of teachers – his mother. Through the journals of her life she had left behind, Dave learns how to see life through her eyes and find true happiness. This was the year two lives became one. The Year of the Roses. Go buy it – one for you, and one for your Mom for Mother’s Day. Details here.