#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem— save that it’s green and wooden— I come, my sweet,
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
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.
I have had my dream—like others— and it has come to nothing, so tha… I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at 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...
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, th… waste of broad, muddy fields
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
The sky has given over its bitterness. Out of the dark change all day long rain falls and falls