I have only written three short poems all summer, although I have had four previous ones published: two in _The Little Review_ and two in _1924_, a magazine published in Woodstock. These have brought me the usual amount of select applause, but no money. I have sent a recent work to _The Dial_, from which I hope to God I get twenty dollars because I’m in bad need of a new suit--and that would help. Becky must have mis-read the _Times_ if she saw any reference to me or a book of mine in it. I am being urged frequently to publish a volume, and I think I would have no trouble in finding a friendly publisher, but so far I have been witheld by my own desire to complete a long poem I am working on,--you have heard me speak of the _Bridge_ poem--before gathering my things together. I need one good sized slice in the basket, and _The Bridge_ I expect to fulfill that part. But a long poem like that needs unbroken time and extensive concentration, and my present routine of life permits me only fragments. (There are days when I simply have to “sit on myself” at my desk to shut out rhythms and melodies that belong to that poem and have never been written because I have succeeded only too well during the course of the day’s work in excluding and stifling such a train of thoughts.) And then there are periods again when the whole world couldn’t shut out the plans and beauties of that work--and I get a little of it on paper. It has been that way lately. And that makes me happy. --/--/ 191: TO HIS MOTHER [_Brooklyn_] _Oct. 21st, ’24_ Dear Grace and Grandma: The last day of my vacation, and somehow the best! So cold and sharp it is, you might think it time for turkey. You know how keenly brilliant the atmosphere around these parts can be--frequently in any season. On such days one gets an even better edge to this glorious light here by the harbor. The water so very blue, the foam and steam from the tugs so dazzlingly white! I like the liners best that are painted white--with red and black funnels like those United Fruit boats across the river, standing at rest. And you should see the lovely plumes of steam that issue from the enormous height of the skyscrapers across the way. I’ve been toasting my feet at an electric stove, a kind of radio heater that I have in my room, and glancing first at the bay, then with another kind of satisfaction at my shelves of books and writing table,--for a long time unable to think of anything but a kind of keen sensual bliss, that is in itself something like action--it contains so much excitement and pleasure. --/--/ 192: TO HIS MOTHER [_Brooklyn_] _Nov. 16th--24_