#AmericanWriters
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
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—
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
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.
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
In this world of as fine a pair of breasts as ever I saw the fountain in Madison Square
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing
Among of green stiff old
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together