#AmericanWriters
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
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...
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
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet