#AmericanWriters
“Mother of heaven, regina of the c… O sceptre of the sun, crown of the… There is not nothing, no, no, neve… Like the clashed edges of two word… And so I mocked her in magnificen…
After the final no there comes a y… And on that yes the future world d… No was the night. Yes is this pre… If the rejected things, the things… Slid over the western cataract, ye…
q|And for what, except for you, do… Do I press the extremest book of… Close to me, hidden in me day and… In the uncertain light of single,… Equal in living changingness to th…
At night, by the fire, The colors of the bushes And of the fallen leaves, Repeating themselves, Turned in the room,
It is grass. It is monotonous. The monotony Is like your port which conceals All your characters
In my room, the world is beyond my… But when I walk I see that it con… hills and a cloud. From my balcony, I survey the yel… Reading where I have written,
Opusculum paedagogum. The pears are not viols, Nudes or bottles. They resemble nothing else. II
The time of year has grown indiffe… Mildew of summer and the deepening… Are both alike in the routine I k… I am too dumbly in my being pent. The wind attendant on the solstice…
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with sno… And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged wit…
Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caf… Of tan with henna hackles, halt! Damned universal cock, as if the s… Was blackamoor to bear your blazin… Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the per…
Twenty men crossing a bridge, Into a village, Are twenty men crossing twenty bri… Into twenty villages, Or one man
There is a great river this side o… Before one comes to the first blac… And trees that lack the intelligen… In that river, far this side of S… The mere flowing of the water is a…
The light is like a spider. It crawls over the water. It crawls over the edges of the sn… It crawls under your eyelids And spreads its webs there—
Every time the bucks went clatteri… Over Oklahoma A firecat bristled in the way. Wherever they went, They went clattering,
At the earliest ending of winter, In March, a scrawny cry from outs… Seemed like a sound in his mind. He knew that he heard it, A bird’s cry at daylight or before…