#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
contend in a sea which the land pa… shielding them from the too—heavy… of an ungoverned ocean which when… tortures the biggest hulls, the be… to pit against its beatings, and s…
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
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…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
They call me and I go. It is a frozen road past midnight, a dust of snow caught in the rigid wheeltracks.
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
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...