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I am not a painter, I am a poet 30 I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer 118 I cough a lot (sinus?) so I 45 I pick up a loaded pen and twiddle it 203 I remember when I wrote The Circus 119 I wanted to be sure to reach you 17 I went to his fortieth birthday 190 I’ll tell you what it was like 103 I’m having a real day of it 34 I’m not going to cry all the time 19 If I rest for a moment near The Equestrian 15 In a corner of a parlor-car 206 In a poem, one line may hide another line 147 In a room on West Tenth Street in June 122 in the garden. Sun 199 In the sky a gray thought 170 Is anything central? 78 Is this the moment? 200 It came to me that all this time 136 It is 12:10 in New York and I am wondering 39 It is 12:20 in New York a Friday 38 It’s my lunch hour, so I go 28 Joe is restless and so am I, so restless. Khrushchev is coming on the right day! Lana Turner has collapsed! Let me tell you Mothers of America My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent Not quite yet. First Not you, lean quarterlies and swarthy periodicals of buildings, this building On a day like this the rain comes Once upon a time there were two brothers One died, and the soul was wrenched out Out here on Cottage Grove it matters. The galloping Out the window, the cow out the window 18 44 49 185 48 23 192 20 200 207 105 94 95 125 210 THE NEW YORK POETS
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Picasso made me tough and quick, and the world Poetry is not instruments Sitting between the sea and the buildings So many convolutions and not enough simplicity! So we are taking off our masks, are we, and keeping Something strange is creeping across me Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you Tearing and tearing The bathtub is white and full of strips The concept is interesting: to see, as though reflected The eager note on my door said “Call me The first of the undecoded messages read: “Popeye sits in thunder, The friends who come to see you The pear tree that last year The rise of capitalism parallels the advance of romanticism The sheath pierces the turf The Sun woke me this morning loud The wind rests its cheek upon the ground and feels the cool damp There I could never be a boy, There is a hornet in the room These are amazing: each These decibels These lacustrine cities grew out of loathing These wonderful things They dream only of America Tomorrow is St Valentine’s Vaguely I hear the purple roar of the torn-down Third Avenue El What’s in those pills? When I was a child Whitman took the cars Why do you play such dreary music Wigging in, wigging out Yippee! she is shooting in the harbor! he is jumping You were wearing your Edgar Allan Poe printed cotton blouse 8 37 60 126 12 98 102 202 138 97 7 75 203 173 77 205 35 176 16 164 59 67 66 63 62 202 43 204 5 166 22 199 11 117 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 211

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I am not a painter, I am a poet

30

I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer 118 I cough a lot (sinus?) so I 45 I pick up a loaded pen and twiddle it 203 I remember when I wrote The Circus 119 I wanted to be sure to reach you 17 I went to his fortieth birthday 190 I’ll tell you what it was like 103 I’m having a real day of it 34 I’m not going to cry all the time 19 If I rest for a moment near The Equestrian 15 In a corner of a parlor-car 206 In a poem, one line may hide another line 147 In a room on West Tenth Street in June 122 in the garden. Sun 199 In the sky a gray thought 170 Is anything central? 78 Is this the moment? 200 It came to me that all this time 136 It is 12:10 in New York and I am wondering 39 It is 12:20 in New York a Friday 38 It’s my lunch hour, so I go 28

Joe is restless and so am I, so restless.

Khrushchev is coming on the right day!

Lana Turner has collapsed!

Let me tell you

Mothers of America

My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent

Not quite yet. First

Not you, lean quarterlies and swarthy periodicals of buildings, this building

On a day like this the rain comes

Once upon a time there were two brothers

One died, and the soul was wrenched out

Out here on Cottage Grove it matters. The galloping

Out the window, the cow out the window

18

44

49

185

48

23

192

20

200

207

105

94

95

125

210

THE NEW YORK POETS

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