#Americans #Modernism #XXCentury #Ekphrasis
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
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 thefield by force; the grass
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…
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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...
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?—here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there’l...
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
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 quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which