#AmericanWriters
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
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…
Disciplined by the artist to go round and round in holiday gear a riotously gay rabble of
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
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—
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…
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion pre… For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy… Hid deep in rushes, where at rando…
Tracks of rain and light linger in the spongy greens of a nature whos… flickering mountain—bulging nearer… ebbing back into the sun hollowing itself away to hold a la…
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
Among of green stiff old