#AmericanWriters
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
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...
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind
You know there is not much that I desire, a few chrysanthemum… half lying on the grass, yellow and brown and white, the talk of a few people, the trees,
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
Why pretend to remember the weather two years back? Why not? Listen close then repeat after others what they have just said and win a reputation for vivacity. Oh feed upon petals o...
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among