If Wishes Were Stories, Beggars Would Read.

I Don't Need To Praise Anything So Justly Famous As Frost's Observation Of And Empathy With Everything In Nature From A Hornet To A Hillside; And He Has Observed His Own Nature, One Person's Random Or Consequential Chains Of Thoughts And Feelings And Perceptions, Quite As Well. (and This Person, In The Poems, Is Not The "alienated Artist" Cut Off From Everybody Who Isn't, Yum-yum, Another Alienated Artist; He Is Someone Like Normal People Only More So - A Normal Person In The Less Common And More Important Sense Of Normal.)

Most Poets, Most Good Poets Even, No Longer Have The Heart To Write About What Is Most Terrible In The World Of The Present: The Bombs Waiting Beside The Rockets, The Hundreds Of Millions Staring Into The Temporary Shelter Of Their Television Sets, The Decline Of The West That Seems Less A Decline Than The Fall Preceding An Explosion.

Goethe Said That The Worst Thing In Art Is Technical Facility Accompanied By Triteness. Many An Artist, Like God, Has Never Needed To Think Twice About Anything. His Works Are The Mad Scene From Giselle , On Ice Skates: He Weeps, Pulls Out His Hair Holding His Wrists Like Lifar And Tells You What Life Is, All At A Gliding Forty Miles An Hour.

You Give Me The Feeling That The Universe Was Made By Something More Than Human For Something Less Than Human. But I Identify Myself, As Always, With Something That There's Something Wrong With, With Something Human.

Say What You Like, But Such Things Do Happen - Not Often, But They Do Happen.