#AmericanWriters
JOY... weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel... painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face... slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door...
RIDING against the east, A veering, steady shadow Purrs the motor-call Of the man-bird Ready with the death-laughter
IN a jeweler’s shop I saw a man b… out thin sheets of gold. I heard a… laugh many years ago. Under a peach tree I saw petals s… .. torn strips of a bride’s dress.…
I AM the nigger. Singer of songs, Dancer. . . Softer than fluff of cotton. . . Harder than dark earth
I TELL them where the wind comes… Where the music goes when the fidd… Kids-I saw one with a proud chin,… And the moonline creeping white on… I have seen their heads in the sta…
The little girl saw her first troo… ‘What are those?’ ‘Soldiers.’ ‘What are soldiers?’ ‘They are for war. They fight and…
Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders, Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers—O flowers, flowers slung by a dancing girl—in the saddest play t...
LAST night a January wind was ri… over our house and whistling a wol… eaves. I sat in a leather rocker and read… the Browning poem, Childe Roland…
Sobs En Route to a Penitentiary Good-by now to the streets and the… locking hubs, The sun coming on the brass buckle… The muscles of the horses sliding…
THE TIME has gone by. The child is dead. The child was never even born. Why go on? Why so much as begin? How can we turn the clock back now
STORMS have beaten on this poin… And ships gone to wreck here and the passers-by remember it with talk on the deck at night as they near it.
FLANDERS, the name of a place,… Spells itself with letters, is wri… “Where is Flanders?” was asked on… Flanders known only to those who l… And milked cows and made cheese an…
HATS, where do you belong? what is under you? On the rim of a skyscraper’s foreh… I looked down and saw: hats: fifty… Swarming with a noise of bees and…
GIVE me your anathema. Speak new damnations on my head. The evening mist in the hills is s… The boulders on the road say commu… The farm dogs look out of their ey…
I ASKED a gypsy pal To imitate an old image And speak old wisdom. She drew in her chin, Made her neck and head