An Old Poet Ought Never

When You Look Back On A Lifetime And Think Of What Has Been Given To The World By Your Presence, Your Fugitive Presence, Inevitably You Think Of Your Art, Whatever It May Be, As The Gift You Have Made To The World In Acknowledgment Of The Gift You Have Been Given, Which Is The Life Itself... That Work Is Not An Expression Of The Desire For Praise Or Recognition, Or Prizes, But The Deepest Manifestation Of Your Gratitiude For The Gift Of Life.

It Is My Heart That's Late, It Is My Song That's Flown.

I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At The Edge Of The Road.

Writer's Block Is A Natural Affliction. Writers Who Have Never Experienced It Have Something Wrong With Them. It Means There Isn't Enough Friction-that They Aren't Making Enough Of An Effort To Reconcile The Contradictions Of Life. All You Get Is Sweet Monotonous Flow. Writer's Block Is Nothing To Commit Suicide Over. It Simply Indicates Some Imbalance Between Your Experience And Your Art, And I Think That's Constructive.

In A Murderous Time/the Heart Breaks And Breaks/and Lives By Breaking.