Poetry Is The Enemy Of The Poem.

One Critic Wrote . . . That My Poems Sounded As Though They Had Been Translated From The Hungarian. I Don't Know Why, But Somehow That Made Me Feel Quite Lighthearted.

I Want To Write Poems That Are Natural, Luminous, Deep, Spare. I Dream Of An Art So Transparent That You Can Look Through And See The World.

My Mother Never Forgave My Father

The Poem In The Head Is Always Perfect. Resistance Begins When You Try To Convert It Into Language.

The Poem Comes In The Form Of A Blessing, Like Rapture Breaking On The Mind.