When it comes to poetry, I think partly the numbers of people attempting to write poems is probably a result or the reaction to technology.
As I look at the barn in my ninth decade, I see the no-smoking sign, rusted and tilting on the unpainted gray clapboard. My grandfather, born in 1875, milked his cattle there a century ago.
I’ve always felt that poetry was particularly erotic, more than prose was… I say that you read poems not with your eyes and not with your ears, but with your mouth. You taste it.
One Oxford poet confessed to me that I had been scary because I talked American and wore tennis shoes.
It is sensible of me to be aware that I will die one of these days. I will not ‘pass away.’
I cannot know anything of which there is and can be only one.
It used to be that phrases and lines would come into my head, often many of them in a period of five days or a week, and maybe I didn’t know what I was talking about, but the words had a kind of heaviness or deliciousness to them.
A fellowship to Oxford acquainted me with the depths of English cooking. By the twenty-first century, London’s best restaurants are as good as Paris’s, but not in the 1950s.
I don’t think Auden liked my poetry very much, he’s very Anglican.
Every afternoon, I shut the door of my bedroom to write: Poetry was secret, dangerous, wicked and delicious.