#AmericanWriters
The man giving birth in the dark has died & come back to life again, is stretching out his arms
What makes a poet? Many have tried to guess. Is it a voice like a conduit, a plainspokenness to grief,
‘Hotel rooms constitute a separate… —Tom Stoppard A bed, a telephone, the cord to the world beyond the womb . . .
My love is too much– it embarrasses you– blood, poems, babies, red needs that telephone from foreign countries,
I love to go to sleep, When bed takes me like a lover wrapping my limbs in cool linen, soothing the fretfulness
. .Who shall measure the heat and violence of the poet’s heart when… and tangled in a woman’s body? —Virginia Woolf Every month,
Because you did, I too arrange fl… Watching the pistils just like ins… And the hard, red flesh of the pet… Widening beneath my eyes. They mo… Of clocks, seeming not to move exc…
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia: di doman non c’e certezza. —Lorenzo di Medici In the poplars’ lengthening shadow… amid the rows of marigolds and ear…
You call me courageous, I who grew up gnawing on books, as some kids
The man under the bed The man who has been there for yea… The man who waits for my floating… The man who is silent as dustballs… The man whose breath is the breath…
On the first night of the full moon, the primeval sack of ocean broke, & I gave birth to you
Nature will bear the closest inspe… —Thoreau The raspberries in my driveway have always
You can be hurt because you want too much; because in your face it says: love me, nurture me; because in your teeth it says:
Little egg, little nub, full complement of fingers, toes, little rose blooming
These beautifully grown men. Thes… Look at them looking! They’re overdrawn on all accounts… & they’ve missed (for the hundredth time) the expre…