#AmericanWriters
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.
Little round moon up there—wait awhile—do not walk so quickly. I could sing you a song—: Wine clear the sky is and the stars no bigger than sparks! Wait for me and next winter we’ll bui...
You sullen pig of a man you force me into the mud with your stinking ash-cart! Brother! —if we were rich
By the road to the contagious hosp… under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
NOW that I have cooled to you Let there be gold of tarnished mas… Temples soothed by the sun to ruin That sleep utterly. Give me hand for the dances,
beauty is a shell from the sea where she rules triumphant till love has had its way with her scallops and
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
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
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