#AmericanWriters
Not you, lean quarterlies and swar… with your studious incursions towa… nor you, experimental theatre in w… is wedding Poetic Insight perpetu… promenading Grand Opera, obvious…
Have you forgotten what we were li… when we were still first rate and the day came fat with an apple… it’s no use worrying about Time but we did have a few tricks up ou…
When music is far enough away the eyelid does not often move and objects are still as lavender without breath or distant rejoinde… The cloud is then so subtly dragge…
If I rest for a moment near The… pausing for a liver sausage sandwi… that angel seems to be leading the… and I am naked as a table cloth, m… Close to the fear of war and the s…
The eager note on my door said “C… call when you get in!" so I quickl… a few tangerines into my overnight… straightened my eyelids and should… headed straight for the door. It…
Is it dirty does it look dirty that’s what you think of in the ci… does it just seem dirty that’s what you think of in the ci…
Now that our hero has come back to… in his white pants and we know his… trembling like a flag under fire, we see the calm cold river is supp… our forces, the beautiful history.
So we are taking off our masks, ar… our mouths shut? as if we’d been p… The song of an old cow is not more… than the vapors which escape one’s… so I pull the shadows around me li…
Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate… You really are beautiful! Pearls, harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins! all the stuff they’ve always talked ab… still makes a poem a surprise!
I am ill today but I am not too ill. I am not ill at all. It is a perfect day, warm for winter, cold for fall. A fine day for seeing. I see
You are so serious, as if a glacier spoke in your ear or you had to walk through the great gate of Kiev to get to the living room.
At night Chinamen jump on Asia with a thump while in our willful way we, in secret, play affectionate games and bruise
Mothers of America let your kids go to the movies get them out of the house so they… know what you’re up to it’s true that fresh air is good f…
It is almost three I sit at the marble top sorting poems, miserable the little lamp glows feebly I don’t glow at all