#AmericanWriters
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
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...
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
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...