#AmericanWriters
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
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...
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!