Wherever that man went, he went gratefully.

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

Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not. -Blackberry picking

Poetry is always slightly mysterious, and you wonder what is your relationship to it.

The gift of writing is to be self-forgetful... to get a surge of inner life or inner supply or unexpected sense of empowerment, to be afloat, to be out of yourself.

I rhyme… to see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

I don't miss teaching. I'm learning to take my time for myself.