How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long ago it seems it might never have been? What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? (from "No Words Can Describe It")

I am not concerned with truth, nor with conventional notions of what is beautiful.

And yet, in a culture like ours, which is given to material comforts, and addicted to forms of entertainment that offer immediate gratification, it is surprising that so much poetry is written.

If every head of state and every government official spent an hour a day reading poetry we'd live in a much more humane and decent world.

Usually a life turned into a poem is misrepresented.

A life is not sufficiently elevated for poetry, unless, of course, the life has been made into an art.

And what does it matter when light enters the room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she cannot name?