Tag Archives: American Poets

the impossibility of being human

BEASTS BOUNDING THROUGH TIME Charles Bukowski Van Gogh writing his brother for paints Hemingway testing his shotgun Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine the impossibility of being human Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief Faulkner drunk … Continue reading

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Sleeping in the Forest

Sleeping in the Forest I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, arranging her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds. I slept as never before, a stone on the riverbed, nothing between me … Continue reading

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Old Swimmers From Old Places

River Roads by Carl Sandburg Let the crows go by hawking their caw and caw. They have been swimming in midnights of coal mines somewhere. Let ’em hawk their caw and caw. Let the woodpecker drum and drum on a … Continue reading

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The Parable of the Blind

“The Parable of the Blind” by William Carlos Williams This horrible but superb painting the parable of the blind without a red in the composition shows a group of beggars leading each other diagonally downward across the canvas from one … Continue reading

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“Ten percent of what I write is immortal”

You Never Had It – An Evening with Bukowski is a documentary from director Matteo Borgardt that transports you back to January 1981 for an intimate evening conversation with legendary writer and poet Charles Bukowski at his San Pedro home. … Continue reading

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Whitman on writing

“The secret of it all, is to write in the gush, the throb, the flood, of the moment…to put things down without deliberation…without worrying about their style…without waiting for a fit time or place. I always worked that way. I … Continue reading

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your one wild and precious life

Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean— the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, … Continue reading

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At midnight, in the month of June

The Sleeper BY EDGAR ALLAN POE At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, … Continue reading

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the lie was the weapon and the plot was empty

“Either peace or happiness, let it enfold you. When I was a young man I felt these things were dumb, unsophisticated. I had bad blood, a twisted mind, a precarious upbringing. I was hard as granite, I leered at the … Continue reading

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The Massacre of Innocents

THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS William Jay Smith (1946) Because I believe in the community of little children Because I have suffered such little children to be slain: I have gazed upon the sunlight, dazed, bewildered, As is a child … Continue reading

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