#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
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…
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—