#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
Here it is spring again and I still a young man! I am late at my singing. The sparrow with the black rain on… has been at his cadenzas for two w…
The over-all picture is winter icy mountains in the background the return from the hunt it is toward evening from the left
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
The murderer’s little daughter who is barely ten years old jerks her shoulders right and left so as to catch a glimpse of me
Trundled from the strangeness of the sea —— a kind of heaven —— Ladies and Gentlemen!
Fools have big wombs. For the rest?'here is pennyroyal if one knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter...
A day on the boulevards chosen out… student poverty! One best day out… Berket in high spirits—"Ha, orang… And he made to snatch an orange fr… Now so clever was the deception, s…
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
My shoes as I lean unlacing them stand out upon flat worsted flowers under my feet.
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves
Of asphodel, that greeny flower, like a buttercup upon its branching stem– save that it’s green and wooden– I come, my sweet,
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good
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...
These are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night
Go to sleep—though of course you w… to tideless waves thundering slant… strong embankments, rattle and swi… dashed thirty feet high, caught by… scattered and strewn broadcast in…