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.

I tell the gods are still alive / And they are not consoling.

I’m only able to write poetry, for the most part, when I have a Muse, a woman who focuses the world for me.

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

Now I become myself. It’s taken time, many years and places.

The ambience here is order and beauty. That is what frightens me when I am first alone again. I feel inadequate. I have made an open place, a place for meditation. What if I cannot find myself inside it?

Failure would only be if you had somewhere stopped growing. As far as I can see the whole duty of the artist is to keep on growing.