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a-calling Alfred Kreymborg axe-helves beautiful bell bird blood blue body breast chain the lions child city of Kalamazoo Cloth clouds CONRAD AIKEN dancing Darius darkness DAVY JONES dawn dead death dollar sign Donald Evans dong door dreams drip earth eyes face feet fingers fishes flowers flutters footsteps girl gold grass green grey hair hands head hear heard heart jazz kiss Kysen lady laugh leaves light lips lived by night look Lord save lover mist moon morning glories never nicotiana night oblivious padre's garden pick axes PLOUGHING ON SUNDAY poems Poetry purple rain red Vines Sambo save my soul shadows shining silence silk silver singing sleep smell smile Smoke song sound spring stars steps stone things thought tree vines voice walk wall watch waves wind wings woman words yellow young
Page 131 - ... elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the baseball fan, the statistician— nor is it valid to discriminate against 'business documents and school-books'; all these phenomena are important.
Page 37 - MENDING WALL Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping...
Page 197 - Wherever his hand has lain there is a tiny purple blemish. Each part is a blossom under his touch to which the fibres of her being stem one by one, each to its end...
Page 132 - ... literalists of the imagination' — above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, then you are interested in poetry.
Page 196 - 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 the field by force; the grass does not raise above it. Here is no question of whiteness, white as can be, with a purple mole at the center of each flower. Each flower is a hand's span of her whiteness.
Page 43 - And stood the axe there on its horse's hoof, Erect, but not without its waves, as when The snake stood up for evil in the Garden,— Top-heavy with a heaviness his short, Thick hand made light of, steel-blue chin drawn down And in a little— a French touch in that. Baptiste drew back and squinted at it, pleased; 'See how she's cock her head!
Page 132 - ... business documents and school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the poets among us can be "literalists of the imagination...
Page 38 - I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as...
Page 171 - VI If men at forty will be painting lakes The ephemeral blues must merge for them in one, The basic slate, the universal hue. There is a substance in us that prevails. But in our amours amorists discern Such fluctuations that their scrivening Is breathless to attend each quirky turn.
Page 174 - I know no magic trees, no balmy boughs, No silver-ruddy, gold-vermilion fruits. But, after all, I know a tree that bears A semblance to the thing I have in mind. It stands gigantic, with a certain tip To which all birds come sometime in their time. But when they go that tip still tips the tree. XI If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.