#AmericanWriters
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
a trouble archaically fettered to produce E Pluribus Unum an island
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie