#AmericanWriters #Couplet #FreeVerse
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
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...
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue