Telephoning In Mexican Sunlight (Galway Kinnell Poem)
Talking with my beloved in New York I stood at the outdoor public telephone in Mexican sunlight, in my purple ...
Talking with my beloved in New York I stood at the outdoor public telephone in Mexican sunlight, in my purple ...
A Nation of trees, drab green and desolate grey In the field uniform of modern wars, Darkens her hills, those ...
Steel doors - guillotine gates - of the doorless house closed massively. We were locked in with loss. Guards frisked ...
by a dank and ancient coffin in the gaunt and gloomy hall alone and sighing deeply crouched the sorriest crone ...
18 if you want a revolution attack symbols not systems - the simple forms that (blithely) give the truth away ...
An olive drab snorkel coat seemed like the coolest thing once upon a time a long snout of a coat ...
There was a man who didn't know how to sleep; nodding off every night into a drab, unprofessional sleep. Sleep ...
Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb -- Or Dome of Worm -- Or Porch of Gnome -- Or some ...
Torture will give a dozen pence or more To keep a drab from bawling at his door. The public taste ...
Torture will give a dozen pence or more To keep a drab from bawling at his door. The public taste ...
For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury It was cold and windy, scarcely the day to take a walk ...
Today, my love, leaves are thrashing the wind just as pedestrians are erecting again the buildings of this drab forbidding ...
I. (Bread and Music) Music I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was ...
RecitativoWHEN lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; When hailstanes drive wi' bitter ...
Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, I did my decent ...
THE SINS of Kalamazoo are neither scarlet nor crimson. The sins of Kalamazoo are a convict gray, a dishwater drab. ...
I wrote a poem on the mist And a woman asked me what I meant by it. I had thought ...
1. The dark socket of the year the pit, the cave where the sun lies down and threatens never to ...
The air heaving like a wounded fish, breathing through its purplish sandy gills, letting in the salty gale, fluttering its ...
"Perhaps you'll tire of me," muses my love, although she's like a great city to me, or a park that ...
[The late Mr. Jonathan Swift Somers, laureate of Spoon River, planned The Spooniad as an epic in twenty-four books, but ...
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