(1916)
#AmericanWriters #Modernism
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
The little sparrows hop ingenuously about the pavement quarreling with sharp voices
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
A power-house in the shape of a red brick chair 90 feet high on the seat of which
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…
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
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
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.
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
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
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey and— In the tall, dried grasses
