Poetry makes nothing happen.

To the man-in-the-street, who, I'm sorry to say, is a keen observer of life. The word Intellectual suggests straight away. A man who's untrue to his wife.

To save your world you asked this man to die; would this man, could he see you now, ask why?

Every poet has his dream reader: mine keeps a look out for curious prosodic fauna like bacchics and choriambs.

Few people take an interest in Iceland, but in those few the interest is passionate.

Art is born of humiliation.

A man has his distinctive personal scent which his wife, his children and his dog can recognize. A crowd has a generalized stink. The public is odorless.