I'm Not Confused. I'm Just Well Mixed.

If The Writer Does Not Cry, The Reader Does Not Cry.

You've Often Heard Me Say - Perhaps Too Often - That Poetry Is What Is Lost In Translation. It Is Also What Is Lost In Interpretation. That Little Poem Means Just What It Says And It Says What It Means, Nothing Less But Nothing More.

Keats Mourned That The Rainbow, Which As A Boy Had Been For Him A Magic Thing, Had Lost Its Glory Because The Physicists Had Found It Resulted Merely From The Refraction Of The Sunlight By The Raindrops. Yet Knowledge Of Its Causation Could Not Spoil The Rainbow For Me. I Am Sure That It Is Not Given To Man To Be Omniscient. There Will Always Be Something Left To Know, Something To Excite The Imagination Of The Poet And Those Attuned To The Great World In Which They Live (p. 64)

Don't Join Too Many Gangs. Join Few If Any. Join The United States And Join The Family- But Not Much In Between Unless A College.

A Poem Begins As A Lump In The Throat, A Sense Of Wrong, A Homesickness, A Lovesickness.