#AmericanWriters
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
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 ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
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.
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich