The Dead Made This World. We Didn't

I Am Proud Only Of Those Days That Pass In Undivided Tenderness.

One Day While Studying A Yeats Poem I Decided To Write Poetry The Rest Of My Life. I Recognized That A Single Short Poem Has Room For History, Music, Psychology, Religious Thought, Mood, Occult Speculation, Character, And Events Of One's Own Life. I Still Feel Surprised That Such Various Substances Can Find Shelter And Nourishment In A Poem. A Poem In Fact May Be A Sort Of Nourishing Liquid, Such As One Uses To Keep An Amoeba Alive. If Prepared Right, A Poem Can Keep An Image Or A Thought Or Insights On History Or The Psyche Alive For Years, As Well As Our Desires And Airy Impulses.

Myth And Poetry Represent A Reservoir Of Vertical Thinking, Which We Could Also Call Longing And Gratitude To Ancestors. We Need That Gratitude Desperately.

I Have Spent Many Years Trying To Recover A Common Language, One That Can Cross The Distance Between People.

The Models Of Adulthood Are Disappearing Fast. How Can Two People Have A New Marriage If Neither Of Them Is An Adult?