For Bartleby The Scrivener (Billy Collins Poem)
"Every time we get a big gale around here some people just refuse to batten down." we estimate that ice ...
"Every time we get a big gale around here some people just refuse to batten down." we estimate that ice ...
You know the brick path in the back of the house, the one you see from the kitchen window, the ...
I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene, but I was still surprised when I found the ...
This is not bad -- ambling along 44th Street with Sonny Rollins for company, his music flowing through the soft ...
And I start wondering how they came to be blind. If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister, ...
The murkiness of the local garage is not so dense that you cannot make out the calendar of pinup drawings ...
The way the dog trots out the front door every morning without a hat or an umbrella, without any money ...
There is a section in my library for death and another for Irish history, a few shelves for the poetry ...
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna or on any river for that matter to be perfectly honest. Not ...
It could be the name of a prehistoric beast that roamed the Paleozoic earth, rising up on its hind legs ...
Now it is time to say what you have to say. The room is quiet. The whirring fan has been ...
When all of a sudden the city air filled with snow, the distinguishable flakes blowing sideways, looked like krill fleeing ...
I turn around on the gravel and go back to the house for a book, something to read at the ...
They say you can jinx a poem if you talk about it before it is done. If you let it ...
Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. ...
I am standing on a disused iron bridge that was erected in 1902, according to the iron plaque bolted into ...
The early sun is so pale and shadowy, I could be looking up at a ghost in the shape of ...
I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach before stepping onto the first wave. Soon I am walking ...
Baudelaire considers you his brother, and Fielding calls out to you every few paragraphs as if to make sure you ...
Today I pass the time reading a favorite haiku, saying the few words over and over. It feels like eating ...
How agreeable it is not to be touring Italy this summer, wandering her cities and ascending her torrid hilltowns. How ...
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok you would never see him doing such a thing, ...
Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult. You always wore brown, the color craze of the ...
The whole idea of it makes me feel like I'm coming down with something, something worse than any stomach ache ...
The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight and as I lean against the door of sleep I begin to ...
There are many that I miss having sent my last one out a car window sparking along the road one ...
As sure as prehistoric fish grew legs and sauntered off the beaches into forests working up some irregular verbs for ...
All afternoon I have been struggling to communicate in Italian with Roberto and Giuseppe, who have begun to resemble the ...
In most self-portraits it is the face that dominates: Cezanne is a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes, Van Gogh ...
You are so beautiful and I am a fool to be in love with you is a theme that keeps ...
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