#AmericanWriters #Ekphrasis
It is a willow when summer is over… a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson.
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
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.
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
Sooner or later we must come to the end of striving to re-establish the image the image of
Let the snake wait under his weed and the writing be of words, slow and quick, sharp to strike, quiet to wait,
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!
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the stre… to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see t… the domes of the Church of the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
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...
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.