We know there are poets who are chosen: by what or whom, we no more know than what lies beyond our final breath, or what caused a certain action which resulted in the fulfillment or the desecration and collapse of what we most cared for in life.
What I myself experience is indescribable gratitude in the face of God’s perpetual and preemptive love, a love which is not contingent upon requital or even belief in His existence.
When I’m in certain moods, a conversation will start up in my head, and suddenly I’ll realize that the language has reached a very high and interesting level, and then lines and stanzas will just kind of appear, full-blown.
I used to comfort myself with the idea of a book with serrated, detachable pages, so that you could read the thing the way it came and then shuffle the pages, like a giant deck of cards, and read the book in an entirely different order. It would be a different book, wouldn’t it? It would be one of infinite books.
For about twenty years, if I managed to write ten or twelve poems in a year; I considered that a pretty successful year, but I wrote ‘The Beforelife’ within a year.
There are people who recall my father as a saint and a monster. I’m quite sure I will share the same fate.
I write and have done so primarily for personal pleasure.
The poetic prose that most interests me is that of Henri Michaux.
I am in no way different from anyone else, that my predicament, my sense of aloneness or isolation may be precisely what unites me with everyone.
Poetry endures when it possesses passionate and primally sincere clarity in the service of articulating universal human concerns.