The heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking it is necessary to go through dark and deeper dark and not to turn

The ear writes my poems, not the mind.

I want to write poems that are natural, luminous, deep, spare. I dream of an art so transparent that you can look through and see the world.

In a murderous time/the heart breaks and breaks/and lives by breaking.

One critic wrote . . . that my poems sounded as though they had been translated from the Hungarian. I don't know why, but somehow that made me feel quite lighthearted.

We have all been expelled from the Garden, but the ones who suffer most in exile are those who are still permitted to dream of perfection.

How shall the heart be reconciled / To its feast of losses?