(1916)
#AmericanWriters
Among of green stiff old
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard.
Tho’ I’m no Catholic I listen hard when the bells in the yellow—brick tower of their new church ring down the leaves
This is a schoolyard crowded with children of all ages near a village on a small stream
All the complicated details of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
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…
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
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...
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air—The edge
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
If when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists