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?

I haven’t met God and I haven’t been to heaven, so I’m skeptical.

I tend to like poems that engage me - that is to say, which do not bore me.

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?

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.

But I tend to think of the expressive part of me as rather tedious - never curious or responsive, but blind and self-serving.

The burial of feelings has begun.