#AmericanWriters #Modernism #FreeVerse
I stopped the car to let the children down where the streets end in the sun at the marsh edge
Why go further? One might conceivably rectify the rhythm, study all out and arrive at the perfection of a tiger lily or a china doorknob. One might lift all out of the ruck, be a worthy...
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Each time it rings I think it is for me but it is not for me nor for anyone it merely
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains— Smell of cleanliness— Sunshine of late afternoon—
Snow falls: years of anger following hours that float idly down — the blizzard drifts its weight
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
A rumpled sheet Of brown paper About the length And apparent bulk Of a man was
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
