#AmericanWriters
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
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...
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
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…