#AmericanWriters
I feel the caress of my own finger… on my own neck as I place my colla… and think pityingly of the kind women I have known.
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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…
Among of green stiff old
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,…
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touch...
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—