My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.
Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.
Though lovers be lost love shall not.
And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
Cold beer is bottled God.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
These are but dreaming men. Breathe, and they fade.
Never be lucid, never state, if you would be regarded great.
Sleeping as quiet as death, side by wrinkled side, toothless, salt and brown, like two old kippers in a box.
Out of the sighs a little comes, But not of grief, for I have knocked down that Before the agony; the spirit grows, Forgets, and cries; A little comes, is tasted and found good...
The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth...
Life always offers you a second chance. It’s called tomorrow.
I learnt the verbs of will, and had my secret; The code of night tapped on my tongue; What had been one was many sounding minded.
Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision that depends in its intensity on the strength of the labour put into the creation of the poetry.
I do not need any friends. I prefer enemies. They are better company and their feelings towards you are always genuine.
Don’t be too harsh to these poems until they’re typed. I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction.
Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies.
And on seesaw Sunday nights, I’d woo who ever I would with my wicked eye!
Somebody’s boring me. I think it’s me.
All world was one, one windy nothing, My world was christened in a stream of milk.