I've always associated the moment of writing with a moment of lift, of joy, of unexpected reward.

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

In fact, in lyric poetry, truthfulness becomes recognizable as a ring of truth within the medium itself.

The most exhilarating for the writer and the reader, are gift-things-poems which arrive on their own energy, poems that in William Shakespeare's term "slip" from you.

I might enjoy being an albatross, being able to glide for days and daydream for hundreds of miles along the thermals. And then being able to hang like an affliction round some people's necks.

Nowadays, what an award gives is a sense of solidarity with the poetry guild, as it were: sustenance coming from the assent of your peers on the judging panel.

Don't be surprised if I demur, for, be advised my passport's green.