The Bogholes Might Be Atlantic Seepage. The

Poetry Is Always Slightly Mysterious, And You Wonder What Is Your Relationship To It.

The Main Thing Is To Write For The Joy Of It. Cultivate A Work-lust That Imagines Its Haven Like Your Hands At Night Dreaming The Sun In The Sunspot Of A Breast. You Are Fasted Now, Light-headed, Dangerous. Take Off From Here.

At Home In Ireland, There's A Habit Of Avoidance, An Ironical Attitude Towards The Authority Figure.

Even If The Last Move Did Not Succeed, The Inner Command Says Move Again.

The Gift Of Writing Is To Be Self-forgetful...