#AmericanWriters
This is a slight stiff dance to a waking baby whose arms have been lying curled back above his head upon the pillow, making a flower—the eyes closed. Dead to the world! Waking is a...
WHERE shall I find you— You, my grotesque fellows That I seek everywhere To make up my band? None, not one
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
One leaves his leaves at home beomg a mullen and sends up a ligh… to peer from: I will have my way, yellow—A mast with a lantern, ten fifty, a hundred, smaller and smal…
According to Brueghel when Icarus fell it was spring a farmer was ploughing his field
ALL those treasures that lie in t… Mightier than the room of the star… All those treasures—I hold them i… Against the sides and the lid and… Crying that there is no sun come a…
The whole process is a lie, unless, crowned by excess, It break forcefully, one way or another,
If a man can say of his life or any moment of his life, There is nothing more to be desired! his st… becomes like that told in the famo… double sonnet—but without the
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
An old willow with hollow branches slowly swayed his few high gright… and sang: Love is a young green willow shimmering at the bare wood’s edge…
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter