#AmericanWriters
The poet fears failure & so she says “Hold on pen— what if the critics hate me?”
Black ship of night sailing through the world & the moon an orange slice tangy to the teeth of lovers who lie
We used to meet on this corner in the same wind. It fought us up the hill to your house,
I put our books face to face so they could talk. They whispered about us. I put yours on top of mine. They would not mate.
When we become truly ourselves, we… —Suzuki Sick of the self, the self—seducing self— with its games, its fears,
Driving me away is easier than saying goodbye– kissing the air,
the sky sinks its blue teeth into the mountains. Rising on pure will (the lurch & lift-off, the sudden swing
Sometimes the poem doesn’t want to come; it hides from the poet like a playful cat who has run
My love is too much– it embarrasses you– blood, poems, babies, red needs that telephone from foreign countries,
Dear Colette, I want to write to you about being a woman for that is what you write to me. I want to tell you how your face
Broken ivories playing the blue piano of the sea. We have come
I am happiest near the ocean, where the changing light reminds me of my death & the fact that it need not be…
The cover of the book is astral violet, & within it are poems, most of them
If you ask him he will talk for ho… how at fourteen he hammered signs,… raw with cold, and later painted b… in ladies’ boudoirs; how he played… for two weeks in jail, and lived o…
Ash falls on the roof of my house. I have cursed you enough in the lines of my poems & between them,