Poetry is such an ancient art, and I consider myself young within that art.

When poets die, other poets take it personally, almost as an affront. A lot of us "left behind" are thinking that poetry is the one thing keeping us alive and present, so what does it mean when one of our ranks chooses to end his or her life? There's an anger beneath the grief, you know? That anger and grief, in turn, breeds other poems from those of us left behind.

I need sometimes to hang back in the shadows with my pen and paper, and then other times, I need to take center stage in my own creations. The trick is to know when to hang back, and when to step forward. It's a perpetual ongoing balance.

I lived a life I knew I had to hide My father's edicts resolutely grim.

It's fun to see someone grow as a writer, moving from their first workshopped poems to publishing their earliest poems to having a book accepted for publication. It's great to see poets with persistence succeed.

I switch between fixed forms and free verse often, and enjoy being a poet who can "swing both ways," so to speak.

I think that the people who really accomplish things in this world have to have a little bit of crazy in them.