It Is Difficult At Times

I Credit Poetry For Making This Space-walk Possible.

The Gift Of Writing Is To Be Self-forgetful... To Get A Surge Of Inner Life Or Inner Supply Or Unexpected Sense Of Empowerment, To Be Afloat, To Be Out Of Yourself.

Now It’s High Watermark And Floodtide In The Heart And Time To Go. The Sea-nymphs In The Spray Will Be The Chorus Now. What’s Left To Say? Suspect Too Much Sweet-talk But Never Close Your Mind. It Was A Fortunate Wind That Blew Me Here. I Leave Half-ready To Believe That A Crippled Trust Might Walk And The Half-true Rhyme Is Love.

Poetry Cannot Afford To Lose Its Fundamentally Self-delighting Inventiveness, Its Joy In Being A Process Of Language As Well As A Representation Of Things In The World.

All I Know Is A Door Into The Dark