Monday, April 28, 2014


Whenever the day is dull and the rain is falling and the feet of the heron are battering against my window, and whenever the Garnetts (who are a literary family) or the gannets (who I believe are a bird) are gossiping in the bay, then what do I do but count my beads and then: a volume of American verse edited by Oscar Williams! I suddenly have the death wish, which is what I started with. And then I have to read the poetry again and then I like it. And then it all begins again: the melancholy, gay, euphoric roundabout.

I am man's reply to every question,
His aim and destination.

Deary me I’d rather be a poet anyday and live on guile and beer.

I often covered more than a hundred sheets of paper with drafts, revisions, rewritings, ravings, doodlings & intensely concentrated work to construct a single vers.

Sunday, April 27, 2014


No, no heavier cross than the poet's cross.

Sweet, dear Poet Angel, unfold your wings around me...!

Writing poetry is no art, come on, no art, writing poetry is a favour by God, a favour.

Sunday, April 6, 2014


Size is the unity one uses to measure relations. And, of course, there's always tension -as well in art as in one's personal life and society- between order and freedom. That's how we stay focused. In order to express this contradiction poetically, nothing is more fit than the two most beautiful figures of speech: symmetry and paradox.