The Bogholes Might Be Atlantic Seepage. The

Smile As You Find A Rhythm Working You, Slow Mile By Mile, Into Your Proper Haunt.

Hope Is Not Optimism, Which Expects Things To Turn Out Well, But Something Rooted In The Conviction That There Is Good Worth Working For.

Poetry Cannot Afford To Lose Its Fundamentally Self-delighting Inventiveness, Its Joy In Being A Process Of Language As Well As A Representation Of Things In The World.

I Suppose I Did Feel A Certain Public Pressure Always.

The Gift Of Writing Is To Be Self-forgetful... To Get A Surge Of Inner Life Or Inner Supply Or Unexpected Sense Of Empowerment, To Be Afloat, To Be Out Of Yourself.