I don't know where the shape of a poem comes from. I certainly don't impose it. I write out of a jumble of emotions and vague notions and scraps of knowledge. At some stage a form or, rather, a shape mysteriously emerges.

In America, where you'd have thought the country's so huge it couldn't happen quite so cosily, everyone's giving his imprimatur to everyone else. You line up three or four well-known poets and a couple of eminent academics on the dustjacket, and the rest of academe follow like sheep. That's death really, if you take pleasure in it. Mind you, the occasional puff's hard to resist, but you shouldn't inhale.

Weddings and funerals have so much in common (except that in Ireland funerals are more fun - better food, better drink): at both, our senses are sharpened and we register much more than usual - a striking face or hair-do, the wind's behaviour, a bird singing.

Most poets' revisions are disastrous. They buckle and dent what was originally forged at a red-hot heat.

A good poem is not completely a poem until it has received a critical response that grows out of the poem in an almost biological way.

I hardly ever look at my published books.

Every Monday morning I try to remember to say "Thank you, Lord. I'm not at the Senior Staff Meeting."