#AmericanWriters
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
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...
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love