#AmericanWriters
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
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 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...
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
I bought a dish mop— having no daughter— for they had twisted fine ribbons of shining copper about white twine
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
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
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
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...
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,