#AmericanWriters
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
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 lie here thinking of you:—— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves,
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
The May sun—whom all things imitate— that glues small leaves to the wooden trees shone from the sky
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…
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.
Summer! the painting is organized about a young reaper enjoying his noonday rest
The green-blue ground is ruled with silver lines to say the sun is shining And on this moral sea of grass or dreams lie flowers
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
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...
A big young bareheaded woman in an apron Her hair slicked back standing on the street One stockinged foot toeing