#AmericanWriters
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
Among of green stiff old
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
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...
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...
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
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.
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.