You Must Be Careful Not To Deprive

Rhythm To Me Is Essentially What Hopkins Called The Taste Of Self. I Taste Myself As Rhythm.

I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At The Edge Of The Road.

Some Poems Present Themselves As Cliffs That Need To Be Climbed. Others Are So Defensive That When You Approach Their Enclosure You Half Expect To Be Met By A Snarling Dog At The Gate. Still Others Want To Smother You With Their Sticky Charms.

An Old Poet Ought Never To Be Caught With His Technique Showing.

Poetry Is Language Surprised In The Act Of Changing Into Meaning.