You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas,

Paintings Are Painted With Paint, Not With Ideas.

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.

O Naked Flower Of My Lips, You Lie! I Await A Thing Unknown Or Perhaps, Unaware Of The Mystery And Your Cries You Give, O Lips, The Supreme Tortured Moans Of A Childhood Groping Among Its Reveries To Sort Out Finally Its Cold Precious Stones.

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.

I Have Made A Long Enough Descent Into The Void To Speak With Certainty. There Is Nothing But Beauty--and Beauty Has Only One Perfect Expression, Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie.