forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.and perhaps it will be pleasing to have remembered these things one day

For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back,...

I will reveal you who I am. I am your reflection.

Too many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears). I don’t give a damn whether they eat or not. Forced...

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard existences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at night are made for mediocre minds – like those horses that...

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Poetry’s work is the clarification and magnification of being.

Every new dayOur children’s joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn.

The trick is to ride the wave,Fast, wide-open and in deep Now-magic.Free, burning fear for fuelGenerous, knowing there is always more where that came from.Cresting, spray of liquid jewels hanging, shining in the sun and...

Wisdomis in the insane asylums.The endis in the everyday-pale smiles

The most carefully crafted language in our culture tends to be poetry. And poetry at its finest moments subverts our best attempts at hiding from reality…The poetry of liturgy has just this power. The liturgy...

The way a crowShook down on meThe dust of snowFrom a hemlock treeHas given my heartA change of moodAnd saved some partOf a day I had rued.

Always learn poems by heart,’ she said. ‘They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they’ll make your soul impervious to the world’s soft decay.

Must be going crazy—my favorite poet latelyhas been me!

The poet must always, in every instance, have the vibrant word… that by it’s trenchancy can so wound my soul that it whimpers…. One must know and recognize not merely the direct but the secret...

At NightLove said, “Wake still and think of me,”Sleep, “Close your eyes till break of day,”But Dreams came by and smilinglyGave both to Love and Sleep their way.

If I could describe myself, I’d say that I am a poetic gerd. (A geek and nerd combo) I love Shakespeare and romance, but sci-fi and action have a big slice of my heart. When...

There’s an old saying that applies to me: you can’t lose a game if you don’t play the game. (Act 1, scene 4)

Poetry can unleash a terrible fear. I suppose it is the fear of possibilities, too many possibilities, each with its own endless set of variations. It’s like looking too closely and too long into a...

I love, therefore I am.

That night, stargazing on the deck with Dad, eyes on the sky, he pointed out Orion, Betelgeuse. “It’s an art to read the stars, baby.”I never wanted to leave his side-my sure song for so...

I am a butterfly poetbirthed from painflying with the freedomof my verses.

Whom boasts about his happiness, cause doesn’t got it!

They’ve gone to bewith Jesus now”But we won’t talkabout how theycrucified Him, too

As wave is driven by wave And each, pursued, pursues the wave ahead, So time flies on and follows, flies, and follows, Always, for ever and new. What was before Is left behind; what never...

Just look what happens to poets,” I used to tell my honors class on the first day of school. “Half the time they go mad. And you know why I think that happens? Too much...

In crime and enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die, Who say to us in slander’s breath That love belongs to sin and death.

There is such a shelter in each other.

Genius in general is poetic. Where genius has been active it has been poetically active. The truly moral person is a poet.

Start with your heart, and only good can follow!

Unforgiveness,splinter in your breastbone, lives there lodged like a small tree.Withers in winter, looms in spring. Its fruit is sweet on first bite, then turns into the taste of your own flesh.

I was not prepared: sunset, end of summer. Demonstrations of time as a continuum, as something coming to an end, not a suspension: the senses wouldn’t protect me. I caution you as I was never...

The townspeople took the prince for deadWhen he never returned with the dragon’s headWhen with her, he stayedShe thought he’d be too afraidBut he loved her too much instead.

With my ninth mind I resurrect my firstand dance slow to the music of my soul made new.

I could not have climbed any mountains while looking from the ground… I would not have flown… or dived… or surfed… or swum… I am not a tourist nor a spectator… this is the life...

We would – or at least we should – take upon ourselves the ultimate task of our poet: to seek the face of God.

I came here to be for all and with all,and what I do today in my solitudewill be echoed tomorrow by the multitude.What I say now with one heartwill be said tomorrow by thousands of...

Hers is a timeless life weaving through other longer lives like a flash of lightning in a clouded evening sky.

Failures of nerve and energy are not permitted. That’s what it means to be an object.

For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see,Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.

She was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleam’d upon my sight;A lovely Apparition, sentTo be a moment’s ornament:Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her...

And when I stand in the receiving linelike Jackie Kennedywithout the pillbox hat,if Jackie were fat and had taken enough Klonopinto still an ox,and you whisperI think of youevery day,don’t finish withbecause I’ve been going...

I’m happy. But some beauty is nonesuch – The gently sloping path across the wood, The wretched bridge that’s just a little skewed And that, for which, I won’t be waiting much.

I went out to the hazel woodbecause a fire was in my headcut and peeled a hazel wandand hooked a berry to a threadand when white moths were on the wingand moth-like stars were flickering...

LIBERTY! FREEDOM! DEMOCRACY!True anyhow no matter how manyLiars use those words.

I don’t bother with rhyme. RarelyAre two trees the same, one beside the other.I think and write like flowers have colorBut with less perfection in my way of expressing myselfBecause I lack the divine simplicityOf...

The Bane…where coxswain’s dirtand seaman’s shirtsbrushed bawdily upon her chest…

Idols of the injury,dug in behind the least understoodmotor plan information.The vile abomination temporal lobes andThe four loathsome memory walls andThe four reasoning, arithmetic beastsare found for all behind pain and planes.Portrayed as a house,Go...

I listen to the rainfall, my words wanna flow!Droplets run down the wall,where do they go?Letters in the raw,mesh together for the show!