Photo Source: Wikimedia Commons William Carlos Williams Passport Photo 1921 When I was seventeen, I discovered William Carlos Williams, and I hated him. It was in a senior English class. We’d been reading Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, both of whom I found transformative. Dickinson’s formality felt like poetry should to my nearly virgin brain; the lines were a sturdy, comfortable room within which her fears and disappointments could live. It was familiar and yet surprising. I...