#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
Nude bodies like peeled logs sometimes give off a sweetest odor, man and woman under the trees in full excess matching the cushion of
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...
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
Mr T. bareheaded in a soiled undershirt his hair standing out on all sides
There were some dirty plates and a glass of milk beside her on a small table near the rank, disheveled bed— Wrinkled and nearly blind