#AmericanWriters
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Take it out in vile whisky, take i… in lifting your skirts to show you… crotches; it is this that is inten… You are it. Your pleas will alway… You too will always go up with the…
From the Nativity which I have already celebrated the Babe in its Mother’s arms the Wise Men in their stolen splendor
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
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
Upon the table in their bowl in violent disarray of yellow sprays, green spikes of leaves, red pointed petals and curled heads of blue
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated ate and sang
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
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…
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...
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
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