#AmericanWriters
Poetry is the supreme fiction, mad… Take the moral law and make a nave… And from the nave build haunted he… The conscience is converted into p… Like windy citherns hankering for…
Napoleon shifted Restless in the old sarcophagus And murmured to a watchguard: “Who goes there?” “Twenty-one million men,
Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caf… Of tan with henna hackles, halt! Damned universal cock, as if the s… Was blackamoor to bear your blazin… Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the per…
I had as lief be embraced by the p… As to get no more from the moonlig… Than your moist hand. Be the voice of the night and Flo… Use dasky words and dusky images.
There were ghosts that returned to… As he sat there reading, aloud, th… They were those from the wildernes… There were those that returned to… Of the pans above the stove, the p…
After the leaves have fallen, we r… To a plain sense of things. It is… We had come to an end of the imagi… Inanimate in an inert savoir. It is difficult even to choose the…
Granted, we die for good. Life, then, is largely a thing Of happens to like, not should. And that, too, granted, why Do I happen to like red bush,
After the final no there comes a y… And on that yes the future world d… No was the night. Yes is this pre… If the rejected things, the things… Slid over the western cataract, ye…
She sang beyond the genius of the… The water never formed to mind or… Like a body wholly body, flutterin… Its empty sleeves; and yet its mim… Made constant cry, caused constant…
Opusculum paedagogum. The pears are not viols, Nudes or bottles. They resemble nothing else. II
One chemical afternoon in mid-autu… When the grand mechanics of earth… Even the leaves of the locust were… He walked with his year-old boy on… The sun shone and the dog barked a…
I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill. The wilderness rose up to it,
On the threshold of heaven, the fi… Become the figures of heaven, the… Of men growing small in the distan… Singing, with smaller and still sm… Unintelligible absolution and an e…
Her terrace was the sand And the palms and the twilight. She made of the motions of her wri… The grandiose gestures Of her thought.
The light is like a spider. It crawls over the water. It crawls over the edges of the sn… It crawls under your eyelids And spreads its webs there—