I say, Father, the years have brought me here, still your son, they have brought me to a life I cannot understand.

I find you in these tears, few, useless and here at last. Don't come back.

Now I think poetry will save nothing from oblivion, but I keep writing about the ordinary because for me it's the home of the extraordinary, the only home.

I listen to jazz about three hours a day. I love Louis Armstrong.

How weightless/ words are when nothing will do.

My mother carried on and supported us; her ambition had been to write poetry and songs.

Back then, I couldn't have left a poem a year and gone back to it.