#AmericanWriters
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
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...
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
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—
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.