[in the true mad north] of introspection, where 'falcons of the inner eye' dive and die, glimpsing in their dying fall, all life's memory of existence.

When you're young, everything seems like a romance. At 96, I can still feel romantic about publishing young unknown writers.

Poetry is eternal graffiti written in the heart of everyone.

I once started out to walk around the world but ended up in Brooklyn, that Bridge was too much for me.

The art has to make it on its own, without explanations, and it’s the same for poetry. If the poem or the painting has to be explained, then it’s a failure in communication.

If you would be a poet, write living newspapers. Be a reporter from outer space, filing dispatches to some supreme managing editor who believes in full disclosure and has a low tolerance for bullshit.

Poetry must be capable of answering the challenge of apocalytpic times, even if this means sounding apocaltypic.