Do as you like with me. I'm your parcel. I have only our address on me. Open me, or readdress me.

I think it was Milosz, the Polish poet, who when he lay in a doorway and watched the bullets lifting the cobbles out of the street beside him realised that most poetry is not equipped for life in a world where people actually die. But some is.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

...imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words look after themselves, like magic.

You could become internationally famous - you're Gemini, and according to antique authority have a literary talent, which of course your letters prove.

The progress of any writer is marked by those moments when he manages to outwit his own inner police system.

The wolf is living for the earth.