#AmericanWriters
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
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
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady’s slipper. Your knees
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,