Here I Am Trying To

My Method Is Simple: Not To Bother About Poetry. It Must Come Of Its Own Accord. Merely Whispering Its Name Drives It Away.

Statues To Great Men Are Made Of The Stones Thrown At Them In Their Lifetime.

I Shall Never Forget What I Saw At The Museum Of Modern Art: In A Spotless Schoolroom, Fifty Little Girls Painting Away At Tables Covered With Brushes, Pots, Tubes, Bowls, Staring Into Space And Sticking Out Their Tongues Like The Clever Animals That Ring A Bell, Tongues Lolling And Eyes Vague. Teachers Supervise These Young Creators Of Abstract Art And Slap Their Wrists If What They Paint Represents Something And Dangerously Inclines Toward Realism. The Mothers - Still At The Picasso Stage - Are Not Admitted.

Art Is Science Made Flesh.

The Poet Is At The Disposal Of The Night. His Role Is Humble, He Must Clean House And Await Its Due Visitation.