I’ve written some poetry I don’t understand myself.
The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
I learned you can’t trust the judgment of good friends.
Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven’t told the girl you are smitten with her.
Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don’t worry about my destiny.
Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are.
We don’t have to think up a title till we get the doggone book written.
A book is never a masterpiece: it becomes one. Genius is the talent of a dead man.
I couldn’t see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
I fell in love, not deep, but I fell several times and then fell out.
My room for books and study or for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall.
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work. I am the grass. I cover all.
The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.
The people know what the land knows.
I am still studying verbs and the mystery of how they connect nouns. I am more suspicious of adjectives than at any other time in all my born days.
The more rhymethere isin poetry the more dangerof its tricking the writer into something other than the urge in the beginning.
Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
I am the people the mob the crowd the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
Drum on your drums, batter on your banjos, sob on the long cool winding saxophones. Go to it, O jazzmen.