Only Silence Perfects Silence.

I Can't Tell You Where A Poem Comes From, What It Is, Or What It Is For: Nor Can Any Other Man. The Reason I Can't Tell You Is That The Purpose Of A Poem Is To Go Past Telling, To Be Recognised By Burning.

Poetry Leads Us To The Unstructured Sources Of Our Beings, To The Unknown, And Returns Us To Our Rational, Structured Selves Refreshed. Having Once Experienced The Mystery, Plenitude, Contradiction, And Composure Of A Work Of Art, We Afterward Have A Built-in Resistance To The Slogans And Propaganda Of Oversimplification That Have Often Contributed To The Destruction Of Human Life. Poetry Is A Verbal Means To A Nonverbal Source. It Is A Motion To No-motion, To The Still Point Of Contemplation And Deep Realization.

I Am Grateful For - Though I Can't Keep Up With - The Flood Of Articles, Theses, And Textbooks That Mean To Share Insight Concerning The Nature Of Poetry.

I Take The Walk To Be The Externalization Of An Interior Seeking So That The Analogy Is First Of All Between The External And The Internal.

With The First Step, The Number Of Shapes The Walk Might Take Is Infinite, But Then The Walk Begins To Define Itself As It Goes Along, Though Freedom Remains Total With Each Step: Any Tempting Side Road Can Be Turned Into An Impulse, Or Any Wild Patch Of Woods Can Be Explored. The Pattern Of The Walk Is To Come True, Is To Be Recognized, Discovered.