#AmericanWriters
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...
By constantly tormenting them with reminders of the lice in their children’s hair, the School Physician first brought their hatred down on him.
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
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.
They tell me on the morrow I must… This winter eyrie for a southern f… And truth to tell I tremble with… At thought of such unheralded repr… E’er have I known December in a w…
Not because of his eyes, the eyes of a bird, but because he is beaked, birdlike, to do an injury, has the turtle attracted you.
Why do I write today? The beauty of the terrible faces of our nonentites stirs me to it:
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm, —so lonely
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
My wife’s new pink slippers have gay pompons. There is not a spot or a stain on their satin toes or their sides… All night they lie together
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…
Subtle, clever brain, wiser than… by what devious means do you contr… to remain idle? Teach me, O maste…
And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks… her dress in a strange bedroom— feels the autumn
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge