#AmericanWriters
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
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.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
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...
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a w...
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go