Forward My Mail To Mars.

Poetry Is Ultimately Mythology, The Telling Of Stories Of The Soul. The Old Myths, The Old Gods, The Old Heroes Have Never Died. They Are Only Sleeping At The Bottom Of Our Minds, Waiting For Our Call. We Have Need Of Them, For In Their Sum They Epitomize The Wisdom And Experience Of The Race.

A Poet Needs To Keep His Wilderness Alive Inside Him.

Some Poems Present Themselves As Cliffs That Need To Be Climbed. Others Are So Defensive That When You Approach Their Enclosure You Half Expect To Be Met By A Snarling Dog At The Gate. Still Others Want To Smother You With Their Sticky Charms.

I Have Walked Through Many Lives, Some Of Them My Own, And I Am Not Who I Was, Though Some Principle Of Being Abides, From Which I Struggle Not To Stray.

The Heart Breaks And Breaks And Lives By Breaking It Is Necessary To Go Through Dark And Deeper Dark And Not To Turn