The number of people writing poems is vast, and their reasons for doing so are many, that much can be surmised from the stacks of submissions.

The reality of a poem is a very ghostly one. It suggests, it suggests, it suggests again.

No voice comes from outer space, from the folds of dust and carpets of wind to tell us that this is the way it was meant to happen, that if only we knew how long the ruins would last we would never complain.

Poems not only demand patience, they demand a kind of surrender. You must give yourself up to them. This is the real food for a poet: other poems, not meat loaf.

When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the spaces where my body's been.

We are reading the story of our lives As though we were in it As though we had written it.

In a field I am the absence of field.That is always the case. Wherever I am, I am what is missing. When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the space where my body has been. We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole.