#AmericanWriters
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…
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
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,…
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.
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
As the cat climbed over the top of the jamcloset first the right
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
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.
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
At ten AM the young housewife moves about in negligee behind the wooden walls of her husband’s… I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb