Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.

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.

The poem in the head is always perfect. Resistance begins when you try to convert it into language.

I can hardly wait for tomorrow, it means a new life for me each and every day.

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

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

What makes the engine go? Desire, desire, desire.