Up From The Bronze, I

The Poem Is Always The Last Resort. In It The Poet Makes A World In Little, And Finds Peace, Even Though, Under Complete Focused Emotion, The Evocation Be Far More Bitter Than Reality, Or Far More Lovely.

Your Work Is Carved Out Of Agony As A Statue Is Carved Out Of Marble.

No More Pronouncements On Lousy Verse. No More Hidden Competition. No More Struggling Not To Be A Square.

Once Form Has Been Smashed, It Has Been Smashed For Good, And Once A Forbidden Subject Has Been Released, It Has Been Released For Good.

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.