#AmericanWriters
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
While she sits there with tears on her cheek her cheek on