The Round (Stanley Kunitz Poem)
Light splashed this morning on the shell-pink anemones swaying on their tall stems; down blue-spiked veronica light flowed in rivulets ...
Light splashed this morning on the shell-pink anemones swaying on their tall stems; down blue-spiked veronica light flowed in rivulets ...
For Carl Solomon I I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves ...
another day is here and my hands are still covered with a mantle of stoic ink words scribbled on a ...
"Oh yes, I went over to Edmonstoun the other day and saw Johnny, mooning around as usual! He will never ...
Oh, why should a hen have been run over on West 4th Street in the middle of summer? She was ...
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or some northerly harbor of Labrador, before he became a schoolteacher a great-uncle painted ...
You'll rejoice at how many kinds of shit there are: gosling shit (which J. Williams said something was as green ...
Some people go their whole lives without ever writing a single poem. Extraordinary people who don't hesitate to cut somebody's ...
The hand that signed the paper felled a city; Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath, Doubled the globe of dead ...
As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew From nature, I believe 'em true: They argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault ...
O dear little cabin, I've loved you so long, And now I must bid you good-bye! I've filled you with ...
"I'm going, Billy, old fellow. Hist, lad! Don't make any noise. There's Boches to beat all creation, the pitch of ...
I saw the Greatest Man on Earth, Aye, saw him with my proper eyes. A loin-cloth spanned his proper girth, ...
Till midnight her needle she plied To finish her pretty pink dress; "Oh, bless you, my darling," she sighed; "I ...
How often have I started out With no thought in my noodle, And wandered here and there about, Where fancy ...
France is the fairest land on earth, Lovely to heart's desire, And twice a year I span its girth, Its ...
YES, the Dead speak to us. This town belongs to the Dead, to the Dead and to the Wilderness. Back ...
EVERY year Emily Dickinson sent one friend the first arbutus bud in her garden. In a last will and testament ...
The world's not wanton only wild and wavering I wanted to choose words that even you would have to be ...
The Angel ended, and in Adam's ear So charming left his voice, that he a while Thought him still speaking, ...
Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire. ...
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