#AmericanWriters
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
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,…
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
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…
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
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…
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 is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...