#AmericanWriters
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
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.
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
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.
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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…
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
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...