My mother never forgave my father

Rhythm to me is essentially what Hopkins called the taste of self. I taste myself as rhythm.

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.

Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.

End with an image and don't explain.

I dropped my hoe and ran into the house and started to write this poem, 'End of Summer.’ It began as a celebration of wild geese. Eventually the geese flew out of the poem, but I like to think they left behind the sound of their beating wings.

The first task of the poet is to create the person who will write the poems.