It is clear that we do not exactly choose our poems; our poems choose us.

Solitude is my element, and the reason is that extreme awareness of other people... precludes awareness of one's self so that after a while the self no longer knows that it exists.

When one's not writing poems - and I'm not at the moment - you wonder how you ever did it. It's like another country you can't reach.

It is dark now. The snow is deep blue and the ocean nearly black. It is time for some music.

For to be desperate is to discover strength. / We die of comfort and by conflict live.

I can understand people simply fleeing the mountainous effort Christmas has become... but there are always a few saving graces and finally they make up for all the bother and distress.

Old age is not an illness, it is a timeless ascent. As power diminishes, we grow toward the light.