#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
It is a satisfaction a joy to have one of those in the house. when she takes a bath
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
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…
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...
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,