#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
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...
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!