#AmericanWriters
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky—
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
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...
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
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...
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.
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,