#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
If you had come away with me into another state we had been quiet together. But there the sun coming up out of the nothing beyond the lake…
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
I must tell you this young tree whose round and firm trunk between the wet pavement and the gutter
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass
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
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey
the back wings of the hospital where nothing will grow lie
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 w...
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
It’s all in the sound. A song. Seldom a song. It should be a song—made of particulars, wasps,
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand