In The End, There Is

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

I'm Sure That Writing Isn't A Craft, That Is, Something For Which You Learn The Skills And Go On Turning Out. It Must Come From Some Deep Impulse, Deep Inspiration. That Can't Be Taught, It Can't Be What You Use In Teaching.

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.