#AmericanWriters
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn