Poetry brings all possible experience to the same degree: a degree in the consciousness beyond which the consciousness itself cannot go.
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones who win in the lifelong race.
A lot of the fun lies in trying to penetrate the mystery; and this is best done by saying over the lines to yourself again and again, till they pass through the stage of sounding like nonsense, and finally return to a full sense that had at first escaped notice.
Both my parents were agnostic. My mother was kind of a Buddhist. She had some spiritual tendencies, but they were kind of flaky – New Agey, you know? Which is partly why I’m suspicious of that sort of thing. I’m skeptical of any spiritual practice that doesn’t involve other people and doesn’t involve some sort of consistent tradition.
People who didn’t live pre-Internet can’t grasp how devoid of ideas life in my hometown was. The only bookstores sold Bibles the size of coffee tables and dashboard Virgin Marys that glowed in the dark.
Every poem probably has sixty drafts behind it.
Mysteries, like the Masonic rites, are ones parents and elders are sworn not to reveal to the uninitiated, which include all children. And so we sought for signs.
We live on the circumference of a hollow circle. We draw the circumference, like spiders, out of ourselves: it is all criticism of criticism.
Be sure your wisest words are those you do not say.
I’m doomed to act like myself, even when it’s inconvenient!