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. Or Fly Up, And Revolve It All Slowly - I Kill Where I Please Because It Is All Mine. There Is No Sophistry In My Body: My Manners Are Tearing Off Heads - The Allotment Of Death.

And The Elephant Sings Deep In The Forest-maze About A Star Of Deathless And Painless Peace But No Astronomer Can Find Where It Is.

This House Has Been Far Out At Sea All Night, The Woods Crashing Through Darkness, The Booming Hills, Winds Stampeding The Fields Under The Window Floundering Black Astride And Blinding Wet Till Day Rose; Then Under An Orange Sky The Hills Had New Places, And Wind Wielded Blade-light, Luminous Black And Emerald, Flexing Like The Lens Of A Mad Eye.

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.

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.