#Americans #Modernism
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
SOFT as the bed in the earth Where a stone has lain— So soft, so smooth and so cool, Spring closes me in With her arms and her hands.
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
Pour the wine bridegroom where before you the bride is enthroned her hair loose at her temples a head of ripe wheat is on
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
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
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.
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
