I’d heard of writers who say they hate to write. Not me. I love to do it.
For better or worse, poetry is my life.
I have to do draft after draft… It takes me a long time, but I love doing it, and I have to do it every day, or I feel slack.
Sound had always been my portal to poetry, but in the beginning, sound was imagined through the eye.
I live in the house my great-grandfather moved to in 1865… I spent all my summers here as a kid haying with my grandfather, and it was my favorite place in the world.
Even famous poets such as Marianne Moore and William Carlos Williams were rarely asked to read their poems.
In December of 1952, my first wife, Kirby, and I left Vienna to drive through the Russian sector of Austria into Yugoslavia.
Some days I feel good about my work, and sometimes I feel I’ve never written anything worthwhile. That’s par for the course.
Obviously, death is ahead of me. I don’t look forward to dying one little bit. But, you know, I simply don’t worry about it because it’s going to happen to me as it does to anybody.
I expect my immortality will last about six seconds after my funeral.