Here's a little poem they wrote after the first poetry reading
I went to, which was around 1950.
And I heard William Carlos Williams
read at some school somewhere.
It's called "For William Carlos, Williams."
When you came and you talk and you read with your private zest
from the varicose marble of the podium,
the lovers of literature paid you be there almost cried
again.
When you came and you talked and you
read with your private guests from the varicose marble
of the podium, the lovers of literature
paid you the tribute of their almost total inattentional.
Although, someone when you spoke of a pig did squirm,
and it is only fair to report another giggle,
but you didn't care.
You seemed above remarking we were not your friend.
You hung around inside the rimmed circles
that you are having glasses and smiled, and so fast
the lonely evening.
In an hour of cooking, your honesty build your tolerance.
When it was over and you sat down,
and the chairman got up and smiled and congratulated
you and shook your hand.
I want the professor a neat bow tie and enormous tree.
Who patted a faint praise with the sufficiently damn strange
spittle from his pipe then slammed.