Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. ~from the poem "Digging

The completely solitary self: that's where poetry comes from, and it gets isolated by crisis, and those crises are often very intimate also.

If self is a location, so is love: Bearings taken, markings, cardinal points, Options, obstinacies, dug heels, and distance, Here and there and now and then, a stance.

At home in Ireland, there's a habit of avoidance, an ironical attitude towards the authority figure.

Whether it be a matter of personal relations within a marriage or political initiatives within a peace process, there is no sure-fire do-it-yourself kit.

Two buckets were easier carried than one. / I grew up in between.

The main thing is to write for the joy of it. Cultivate a work-lust that imagines its haven like your hands at night dreaming the sun in the sunspot of a breast. You are fasted now, light-headed, dangerous. Take off from here.