#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
O—EH—lee! La—la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
Constantly near you, I never in m… sixty-four years knew you so well… or half so well. We talked. you we… so lucid, so disengaged from all e… of place and time. We talked of ou…
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
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...
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge