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.
To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.
Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.
The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.
All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
The fog comes on little cat feet.