#AmericanWriters
Thrushes flying over the lake. Ni… Yes, my King. Paris hungry and le… America falling into history. Yes… along the Seine when I was always…
How astonishing it is that languag… and frightening that it does not q… God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we… Get it wrong. We say bread and it… to which nation. French has no wor…
Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter ever… are not starving someplace, they a… somewhere else. With flies in thei… But we enjoy our lives because tha… Otherwise the mornings before summ…
The Poles rode out from Warsaw ag… Tanks on horses. Rode knowing, in… A magnitude of beauty that allows… And yet this poem would lessen tha… The bravery. Say it’s not courage…
In the small towns along the river nothing happens day after long day… Summer weeks stalled forever, and long marriages always the same… Lives with only emergencies, birth…
All this windless day snow fell into the King’s Garden where I walked, perfecting and gro… abandoning one by one everybody: randomly in love with the paradise
Woke up suddenly thinking I heard… Rushed through the dark house. Stopped, remembering. Stood looki… out at the bright moonlight on con…
There is always the harrowing by m… the strafing by age, he thinks. Al… Sorrows come like epidemics. But… in the difficult way adults want t… It is worth having the heart broke…
Everyone forgets that Icarus also… It’s the same when love comes to a… or the marriage fails and people s… they knew it was a mistake, that e… said it would never work. That she…
Of course it was a disaster. The unbearable, dearest secret has always been a disaster. The danger when we try to leave. Going over and over afterward
Every morning the sad girl brings… and two lambs laggardly to the top… past my stone hut and onto the mou… She turned twelve last year and it… for the father to take her out of…
There was no water at my grandfath… when I was a kid and would go for… with two zinc buckets. Down the pa… past the cow by the foundation whe… the fine people’s house was before
I’d walk her home after work buying roses and talking of Bechst… She was full of soul. Her small room was gorged with hea… and there were no windows.
I call it exile, or being relegate… I call it the provinces. And all the time it is my heart. My imperfect heart which prefers this distance from people. Prefers
Our heart wanders lost in the dark… Our dream wrestles in the castle o… But there’s music in us. Hope is… but the angel flies up again takin… The summer mornings begin inch by…