Every luxury must be paid for, and everything is a luxury, starting with being in this world.
There is something to that old saying that hate injures the hater, not the hated.
There are situations which cannot honorably be met by art.
Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.
The soul has many motions, body one.
Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet’s abstract head. Words drip the poem on the page; Out of his grief, delight and rage.
I am my own Universe, I my own Professor.
A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.
The corncob was the central object of my life. My father was a horse handler, first trotting and pacing horses, then coach horses, then work horses, finally saddle horses. I grew up around, on, and under horses, fed them, shoveled their manure, emptied the mangers of corncobs.
Things explain each other, not themselves.