This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.
Whatever you have to say, leave the roots on, let them dangle, And the dirt, Just to make clear where they come from.
I take space to be the central fact to man born in America. I spell it large because it comes large here. Large and without mercy.
You don't help people in your poems. I've been trying to help people all my life - that's my trouble.
There is a grace of life which is still yours, my dear Europe.
And all now is war Where so lately there was peace, and the sweet brotherhood, the use of tilled fields.
You can read everybody. It's not even interesting to tell the truth because to some extent it's false.
When will government cease being a nuisance to everybody?
I don't live for poetry. I live far more than anybody else does.
Forgive me if I sleep until I wake up.
This country has been unconscious, and it's got to awake. That's my belief.
I sound like Homer. I mean Winslow Homer.
The poem, for me, is simply the first sound realized in the modality of being.
with what violence benevolence is bought what cost in gesture justice brings what wrongs domestic rights involve what stalks this silence
You can do anything, literally, right? That's one of the exciting possibilities of the present.