#AmericanWriters
YOUR bony head, Jazbo, O dock w… Those grappling hooks, those wheel… The dome and the wings of you, nig… The red roof and the door of you, I know where your songs came from.
She had a box with a million red bandanas for hi… She gave them to him one by one or by thousands, saying then she had not enough for…
WHY shall I keep the old name? What is a name anywhere anyway? A name is a cheap thing all father… each child: A job is a job and I want to live…
THEN came, Oscar, the time of th… And there was no land for a man, n… Unless guns sprang up And spoke their language. The how of running the world was a…
YELLOW dust on a bumble bee’s wing, Grey lights in a woman’s asking eyes, Red ruins in the changing
WALKED among the streets of an old city and the streets were lean as the throats of hard seafish soaked in salt and kept in barrels many years. How old, how old, how old, we are:—the...
TEN minutes now I have been look… I have gone by here before and won… This is a bronze memorial of a fam… Riding horseback with a flag and a… on him.
ON the one hand the steel works. On the other hand the penitentiary… Sante Fé trains and Alton trains Between smokestacks on the west And gray walls on the east.
WONDER as of old things Fresh and fair come back Hangs over pasture and road. Lush in the lowland grasses rise And upland beckons to upland.
I WROTE a poem on the mist And a woman asked me what I meant… I had thought till then only of th… how pearl and gray of it mix and r… And change the drab shanties with…
THEY have taken the ball of eart… and made it a little thing. They were held to the land and hor… they were held to the little seas. They have changed and shaped and w…
PIETRO has twenty red and blue… They flutter and dance pulling Pi… A nickel apiece is what they sell… Wishing children tag Pietro’s hee… He sells out and goes the streets…
OF my city the worst that men wil… You took little children away from… And the glimmers that played in th… And the reckless rain; you put the… To work, broken and smothered, for…
THIS handful of grass, brown, says little. This quarter mile field of it, waving seeds ripening in the sun, is a lake of luminous firefly lavender. Prairie roses, two of them, climb dow...
The haggard woman with a hacking cough and a deathless love whispers of white flowers... in your poem you pour like a cup of coffee, Gabriel. The slim girl whose voice was lost in the w...