#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
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...
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
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…
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!