#AmericanWriters
Now who could take you off to tiny… In one room or in two rooms or in… And cork you smartly, like the fla… You are? Not any woman. Not a wif… You’d let her twirl you, give her…
Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got… The damp small pulps with a little… The singers and workers that never… You will never neglect or beat
Say to them, say to the down-keepers, the sun-slappers, the self-soilers, the harmony-hushers,
To be in love Is to touch with a lighter hand. In yourself you stretch, you are w… You look at things Through his eyes.
arrive. The Ladies from the Ladie… Arrive in the afternoon, the late… In diluted gold bars across the bo… Of proud, seamed faces with mercy… Here, there, interrupting, all dee…
The good man. He is still enhancer, renouncer. In the time of detachment, in the time of the vivid heather a… in the time of oral
A riot is the language of the unhe… —martin luther king John Cabot, out of Wilma, once a… all whitebluerose below his golden… wrapped richly in right linen and…
He was born in Alabama. He was bred in Illinois. He was nothing but a Plain black boy. Swing low swing low sweet sweet ch…
Mayor. Worldman. Historyman. Beyond steps that occur and close, your steps are echo-makers. You can never be forgotten. We begin our health.
Into her mother’s bedroom to wash… “My mother is jelly-hearted and sh… Sweet, quiver-soft, irrelevant. N… Only a habit would cry if she shou… A pleasant sort of fool without th…
Already I am no longer looked at… My daughters and sons have put me… Are gone from the house. My husband and lovers are pleasant… And night is night.
From the first it had been like a Ballad. It had the beat inevitabl… A wildness cut up, and tied in lit… Like the four-line stanzas of the… understood—the ballads they had se…
We are things of dry hours and the… Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” mate… Like “rent”, “feeding a wife”, “sa… But could a dream sent up through… Its white and violet, fight with f…
of the furious Who take Today and jerk it out of… have made new underpinnings and a… Blacktime is time for chimeful poemhood
I shall not sing a May song. A May song should be gay. I’ll wait until November And sing a song of gray. I’ll wait until November