I am the poet, you are the poem; I hold the pen, you are the words, love is the ink, silence is the blank page.

There are poets,there are philosophers, there are spiritualists and me. I try to foot the bill of these mighty three.

We are all poets, really.

you make autumn misttaste like champagne and turn winter raininto the elixir of life itself.

Poets can’t march in protest or do that sort of thing. I feel that’s against the rules, and pointless. If mankind wants a great big final bang, that’s what it’ll get. One should never protest...

A Blessing on the PoetsPatient earth-digger, impatient fire-maker,Hungry word-taker and roving sound-lover,Sharer and saver, muser and acher,You who are open to hide or uncover,Time-keeper and –hater, wake-sleeper, sleep-waker;May language’s language, the silence that liesUnder each...

A big desire is not enough to meet the expectations of lost dreams.

A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.

Infinity is the end. End without infinity is but a new beginning.

Real geniuses would like that what we think of ourselves is true.

Each poem leads you to the questions it makes sense to ask it.

Only poets and philosophers see the world as it really is, for only to them is it given to live without illusions. To see clearly is to not act.

God has his poets; they let him dream.

I bargained with Life for a penny,And Life would pay no more, However I begged at eveningWhen I counted my scanty store;For Life is just an employer,He gives you what you ask,But once you have...

On the last day of the worldI would want to plant a tree

Still, no one finally knows what a poet is supposed either to be or to do. Especially in this country, one takes on the job—because all that one does in America is considered a “job”—with...

poetry. i am not writing it.(make way for me please)it is my skin. dripping with light.

Nowadays you have to be a scientist if you want to be a killer. No, no, I was neither. Ladies and gentleman of the jury, the majority of sex offenders that hanker for some throbbing,...

Let’s not be too harsh where poets are concerned. They have to live in no-man’s-land, halfway between dreams and reality.

Inside is where we meet everyone else; it’s on the outside that we are truly alone.

Too often, feelings arrive too soon, waiting for thoughts that often come too late.

He thought others were small; that was his greatness.

A smiling lie is a whirlwind, easy to enter, but hard to escape.

Heaven deliver us, what’s a poet? Something that can’t go to bed without making a song about it.

That’s a poet.”I thought you said it was a bo-at.”Stupid pet! Don’t you know what a poet it?”Why, a thing to sail on the water in.”Well, perhaps you’re not so far wrong. Some poets do...

There are two types of poets: People who write poetically about their lives, and poets that live poetically and write about it.

Be a poet in action as well as in words.

What was it Like?””What was what like?” he said, although he knew.”Quick, I imagine. But you must have perceived something. A split second of vanishing awareness. A grasping at a shrinking light.” “It was like...

I find my data first in myself, not first in the poets. For if I did not find it in myself, I would not be able to find it in the poets.

From oriole to crow, note the declineIn music. Crow is realist. But, then,Oriole, also, may be realist.

How….will I ever truly depict you?You’re perfect, my writing isn’t.

depth and substance.the two most exquisite qualities. be it in a poemor a person.

[poems are] crystals deposited after the effervescent contact of the spirit with reality.(cristaux deposes apres l’effervescent contact de l’esprit avec la realite)

Most people don’t have real friends. You have people in your life waiting for opportunities to see what YOU can do for them.

Hope without love is hopeless.

If what we think of ourselves were true, the planet would overflow with geniuses.

You mark and celebrate errors, transforming failures into successes.

Life is only a flicker of melted ice.

The life of a poet lies not merely in the finite language-dance of expression but in the nearly infinite combinations of perception and memory combined with the sensitivity to what is perceived and remembered.