#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
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
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
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...
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass