I have begun to think of life as a series of ripples widening out from an original center.

Irish readers, British readers, American readers: is it odd that I haven't a clue about how differently they react? Or better say, I cannot find the words to describe my hunch about them.

The external reality and inner dynamic of happenings in Northern Ireland between 1968 and 1974 were symptomatic of change, violent change admittedly, but change nevertheless, and for the minority living there, change had been long overdue.

But that citizen's perception was also at one with the truth in recognizing that the very brutality of the means by which the IRA were pursuing change was destructive of the trust upon which new possibilities would have to be based.

The thing about writing is that if you have the impulse, you will find the time.

You had to come back to learn how to lose yourself, to be pilot and stray-witch, Hansel and Gretel in one.

Memory has always been fundamental for me. In fact, remembering what I had forgotten is the way most of the poems get started.