Great poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.
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I think of those who were truly great. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.
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I'm struggling at the end to get out of the valley of hectoring youth, journalistic middle age, imposture, moneymaking, public relations, bad writing, mental confusion.
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There is a certain justice in criticism. The critic is like a midwife - a tyrannical midwife.
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When a child, my dreams rode on your wishes, / I was your son, high on your horse, / My mind a top whipped by the lashes / Of your rhetoric, windy of course.
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