I believe that all poetry is formal in that it exists within limits, limits that are either inherited by tradition or limits that language itself imposes.

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.

The burial of feelings has begun.

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.

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

It hardly seems worthwhile to point out the shortsightedness of those practitioners who would have us believe that the form of the poem is merely its shape.

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")