#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
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…
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
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…
This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pe...
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
