No One Wants To Read

The Heavy Sensual Shoulders, The Thighs, The Blood-born Flesh And Earth Turning Into Color, Rocks Into Their Crystals, Water To Sound, Fire To Form: Life Flickers Uncounted Into The Supple Arms Of Love.

Everywhere We Are Told That Our Human Resources Are All To Be Used, That Our Civilization Itself Means The Uses Of Everything It Has - The Inventions, The Histories, Every Scrap Of Fact. But There Is One Kind Of Knowledge - Infinitely Precious, Time-resistant More Than Monuments, Here To Be Passed Between The Generations In Any Way It May Be: Never To Be Used. And That Is Poetry.

The Sources Of Poetry Are In The Spirit Seeking Completeness.

One Writes In Order To Feel.

Slowly I Would Get To Pen And Paper, Make My Poems For Others Unseen And Unborn. In The Day I Would Be Reminded Of Those Men And Women, Brave, Setting Up Signals Across Vast Distances, Considering A Nameless Way Of Living, Of Almost Unimagined Values.