(1923)
#AmericanWriters
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
It is still warm enough to slip from the weeds into the lake’s edge, your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning behind the derelict hearth’s side. But summer...
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
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...
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
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...
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island