Mature art, I think, emerges when there's a certain balance
of tensions, when there's neither neurotic prostration nor
cold rationality, but an aura of energy and a drive to grasp
personal "truths" still emerging into perception.
To grasp and to shape them.
The essentials of poetry are rhythm, dance, and the human voice.
Through the cold time she holds me with evergreen devotion she bears up my whiteness.
It is not easy to free
myth from reality
or rear this fellow up
to lutch, lurch with them
in the tranced dancing of men.
The history of the development of contemporary writing in Vancouver from 1946 to 1960 is pretty largely a one-man show, and that man was me.
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