If the garden of Eden really exists it does so moment by moment, fragmented and tough, cropping up like a fan of buddleia high up in the gutter of a deserted warehouse, or in a heap of frozen cabbages becoming luminous in the reflected light of roadside snow.

Poets go through a very tough apprenticeship in the use of words.

The human longing for story is so powerful, so primitive, that it seems like something not learned, but locked into our genes.

However, I began to submit poems to British magazines, and some were accepted. It was a great moment to see my first poems published. It felt like entering a tradition.

I concentrate on the lives of individuals whom the reader comes to know and feel with intimately.

The language has got to be fully alive - I can't bear dull, flaccid writing myself and I don't see why any reader should put up with it.

Those who try to obliterate the past are injuring the present.