It is at the edge of the petal that love waits

What power has love but forgiveness?In other wordsby its interventionwhat has been donecan be undone.What good is it otherwise?

Writing is not a searching about in the daily experience for apt similes and pretty thoughts and images… It is not a conscious recording of the day’s experiences ‘freshly and with the appearance of reality’…...

It is difficultto get the news from poemsyet men die miserably every dayfor lackof what is found there.

But the seawhich no one tendsis also a garden

unsignificantlyoff the coastthere wasa splash quite unnoticedthis was Icarus drowning

Your thighs are appletrees. Your knees are a southern breeze.

I would say poetry is language charged with emotion. It’s words, rhythmically organized . . . A poem is a complete little universe. It exists separately. Any poem that has any worth expresses the whole...

If it ain’t a pleasure, it ain’t a poem.

So much dependsuponA red wheelbarrowGlazed with rainwaterBeside the whitechickens.

beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.

The HurricaneThe tree lay downon the garage roof and stretched, You have your heaven, it said, go to it.

Danse Russe If I when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists above shining trees,– if I in my north room...

Their story, yours, mine – it’s what we all carry with us on this trip we take, and we owe it to each other to respect our stories and learn from them.

For the beginning is assuredlythe end- since we know nothing, pureand simple, beyondour own complexities.

Hold back the edges of your gown, Ladies, we are going through hell.

You lethargic, waiting upon me,waiting for the fire and Iattendant upon you, shaken by your beautyShaken by your beauty Shaken.

The pure products of Americago crazy……[] No one to witnessand adjust, no one to drive the car

Remorse is a virtue in that it is a stirrer up of the emotions but it is a folly to accept it is a criticism of conduct.

I think all writing is a disease. You can’t stop it.

The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose- red grasses and you- in your apron...

We sit and talk,quietly, with long lapses of silenceand I am aware of the streamthat has no language, coursingbeneath the quiet heaven ofyour eyeswhich has no speech

There is nothing sacred about literature, it is damned from one end to the other. There is nothing in literature but change and change is mockery. I’ll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn...

But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there’ll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi.

This is Just to Say I have eatenthe plumsthat were inthe iceboxand whichyou were probablysavingfor breakfastForgive methey were deliciousso sweetand so cold

Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.

age’s lust loose!