I've been trying to come to terms with what I am and what I do and what I believe in. And I see that I'm not happy with - well, it's almost as if being a poet is not enough for me. It's too late for me to do more now. I did what I could in a small way. I did it as theater, too, to be honest.

Oppressed cultures often envy those which are not, or oppressed individuals do, and sometimes those which - and who - are not envy those which - who - are.

I've spent hundreds of hours working over words, and part of me, a large part of me, has a desire to do something else.

It's just that very few poets disturb the peace to any degree.

Sometimes a person thinks he's attached to one thing and he's really attached to something else.

You could be attached to merely a description of a plant or a flower. Or a narrative of an event. Or rage at injustice. Isaiah and the other Hebrew prophets, in their rage, were being altogether attached - not at all detached, although as I think of the word "detachment," I also think of a sheet of paper, loose from its notebook, fluttering around somewhere in the wind trying to find its home again.

If the Buddhist's job is to be detached, I think that the artist's job is to be both detached and attached.