One of the greatest necessities in America is to discover creative solitude.
There is only one child in the world and the Child’s name is All Children.
There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere.
In the night the cabbages catch at the moon, the leaves drip silver, the rows of cabbages are a series of little silver waterfalls in the moon.
By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
Revolt and terror pay a price. Order and law have a cost.
Time is the coin of your life. You spend it. Do not allow others to spend it for you.
I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.
Beware of advice-even this.
Time is the coin of our live. We must take care how we spend it.
Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand to your pencil to your paper till you get the answer.
When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.
In the average newspaper there is not a complete suppression of stories that the sacred cows don’t want printed. But rather what happens is that the stories get printed with stresses, colorations and emphasis that favor the sacred cows.
Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
There is a warning love sends and the cost of it is never written till long afterward.