#AmericanWriters
Paterson lies in the valley under… its spent waters forming the outli… lies on his right side, head near… of the waters filling his dreams!… his dreams walk about the city whe…
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
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…
Beloved you are Caviar of Caviar Of all I love you best O my Japanese bird nest No herring from Norway
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
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.
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
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...
You Communists and Republicans! all you Germans and Frenchmen! you corpses and quickeners! The stars are about to melt and fall on you in tears.
THE ARCHER is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven—
Light hearted William twirled his November moustaches and, half dressed, looked from the bedroom window upon the spring weather.