I wish i could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.
Looking at the sky last night and the moon in the first fresh dark, just a few stars, bright with their cold flares, I had a little crumpled thought, 'Oh well, the moon. It's just another place like California.' One's imagination drags its feet as we are inexorably hauled into the future.
The aim of the poet, or other artist, is first to make something; and it's impossible to make something out of words and not communicate
Snow falling softly on lashes of eyes you love, and a cold cheek growing warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.
In the past I have declined to comment on my own work: because, it seems to me, a poem is what it is; because a poem is itself a definition, and to try to redefine it is to be apt to falsify it; and because the author is the person least able to consider his work objectively
However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.
It seems to me that readers sometimes make the genesis of a poem more mysterious than it is (by that I perhaps mean, think of it as something outside their own experience)
A nothing day full of wild beauty .... Little fish stream by, a river in water.
It is always pleasant to learn that someone takes an interest in a work which one enjoyed writing
I do not usually revise much, though I often cut, particularly the end or toward the end of a poem
One tends to write beyond what's needed
What are the questions you wish to ask?
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