The Trouble With Poetry Is That It

The Mind Can Be Trained To Relieve Itself On Paper.

You Will Always Be The Bread And The Knife, Not To Mention The Crystal Goblet And—somehow—the Wine.

I Stared Up At The Ebbing Quarter Moon And The Stars Scattered Like A Handful Of Salt Across The Faraway Sky.

There's This Pet Phrase About Writing That Is Bandied Around Particularly In Workshops About "finding Your Own Voice As A Poet", Which I Suppose Means That You Come Out From Under The Direct Influence Of Other Poets And Have Perhaps Found A Way To Combine Those Influences So That It Appears To Be Your Own Voice.

And Strangely Enoughthe Only Emotion I Ever Feel, Is What The Beaver Must Feel, As He Bears Each Stick To His Hidden Construction, Which Creates The Tranquil Pond And Gives The Mallards Somewhere To Paddle, And The Pair Of Swans A Place To Conceal Their Young