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

These wrinkles are nothing These gray hairs are nothing, This stomach which sags with old food, these bruised and swollen ankles, my darkening brain, they are nothing. I am the same boy my mother used to kiss.

Poetry is something that happens in universities, in creative writing programs or in English departments.

Even this late it happens the coming of love, the coming of light. You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, sending up warm bouquets of air. Even this late the bones of the body shine and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

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.

A great many people seem to think writing poetry is worthwhile, even though it pays next to nothing and is not as widely read as it should be.