#AmericanWriters
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
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
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
I lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
To make two bold statements: There’s nothing sentimental about a machine, and: A poem is a small (or large) machine made out of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poe...