#AmericanWriters
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.
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
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…
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.