The Progress Of Any Writer Is Marked

It Took The Whole Of Creation To Produce My Foot, My Each Feather: Now I Hold Creation In My Foot.

I Sit In The Top Of The Wood, My Eyes Closed. Inaction, No Falsifying Dream Between My Hooked Head And Hooked Feet: Or In Sleep Rehearse Perfect Kills And Eat.

The Sea Cries With Its Meaningless Voice, Treating Alike Its Dead And Its Living

The World Rolls Under The Long Thrust Of His Heel. Over The Cage Floor The Horizons Come.

I Think It Was Milosz, The Polish Poet, Who When He Lay In A Doorway And Watched The Bullets Lifting The Cobbles Out Of The Street Beside Him Realised That Most Poetry Is Not Equipped For Life In A World Where People Actually Die. But Some Is.