Too Many Lives Are Needed

The Poet Does Not Know - Often He Will Never Know - Whom He Really Writes For.

Happiness, For You We Walk On A Knife Edge. To The Eyes You Are A Flickering Light, To The Feet, Thin Ice That Cracks; And So May No One Touch You Who Loves You.

Evidently The Arts, All The Visual Arts, Are Becoming More Democratic In The Worst Sense Of The Word.

Mass Communication, Radio, And Especially Television, Have Attempted, Not Without Success, To Annihilate Every Possibility Of Solitude And Reflection.

There Is Also Poetry Written To Be Shouted In A Square In Front Of An Enthusiastic Crowd. This Occurs Especially In Countries Where Authoritarian Regimes Are In Power.