#AmericanWriters
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
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
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
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…
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
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...
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left