I feel that poetry is going on all the time inside, an underground stream.
Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
The winter does what it can for its children.
I listen to music a great deal. In a way, it's trying to express things that can't be expressed in words. That's something that interests me, too. Even though I use words to express myself, I am trying to, it seems to me, get beyond that.
Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!