#AmericanWriters
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
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!
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
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...
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
unless there is a new mind there cannot be a new line
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left