#AmericanWriters
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.
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...
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
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…
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
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 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
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
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.
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
Even in the time when as yet I had no certain knowledge of her She sprang from the nest, a young… Whose first flight circled the for… I know now how then she showed me
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was