I wasn’t afraid of being poor. I didn’t want to live in a big house. I’m the perfect size for poetry. I can move around.
I Can
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.
If I get the idea, and I get some clarity on how I feel about that idea, then I can safely assume I’ll find the right words. I do have that confidence.
For my own part, I have been wont to converse with poverty; and however disagreeable a companion she may be thought to be by the affluent and luxurious, who were never acquainted with her, I can live happily with her the remainder of my life if I can thereby contribute to the redemption of my country.
I think that concrete poetry seems to have, as far as I can see, come to a kind of a dead end. It doesn’t seem to be going any further than it went in its high period of about five or six years ago.
I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy.
One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I’ll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other.
I can be jailed again at any time, it is very easy. They can say I am a criminal and just lock me up.
I like my subjects to be American, and not too dead, so I can interview people who knew them.
Whether women are better than men I cannot say – but I can say they are certainly no worse.