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When I say I must write, I don't mean I must publish. There is a great difference. the important thing is the chaotic form given to my chaotic experie...more

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brave love, dreamnot of staunching such strict flame, but come,lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.

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How we need that security. How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I n...more

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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly,...more

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This is newness: every little tawdryObstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only youDon't know what to make o...more

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For me poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.

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I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.

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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss?Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am ...more

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The tongues of hell are dull.

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LoreleiIt is no night to drown in:A full moon, river lapsingBlack beneath bland mirror-sheen,The blue water-mists droppingScrim after scrim like fishn...more

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EnnuiTea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,designing futures where nothing will occur:cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning shewill still predict...more

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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far so fast in such a small space; you've got to burn away all the peripherals.