There’s no money in poetry, but there’s no poetry in money, either.
When the immense drugged universe explodes In a cascade of unendurable colour And leaves us gasping naked, This is no more than the ectasy of chaos: Hold fast, with both hands, to that royal love Which alone, as we know certainly, restores Fragmentation into true being. Ecstasy of Chaos.
To be a poet is a condition rather than a profession.
Wakeful they lie.
If there’s no money in poetry, neither is there poetry in money.
English poetic education should, really, not begin with The Canterbury Tales, not with the Odyssey, not even with Genesis, but with Song of Amergin.
There is no such thing as good writing, only good rewriting.
I was last in Rome in AD 540 when it was full of Goths and their heavy horses. It has changed a great deal since then.
Kill if you must, but never hate: Man is but grass and hate is blight, The sun will scorch you soon or late, Die wholesome then, since you must fight.
Intuition is the supra-logic that cuts out all the routine processes of thought and leaps straight from the problem to the answer.
Every English poet should master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them.
As you are woman, so be lovely: As you are lovely, so be various, Merciful as constant, constant as various, So be mine, as I yours for ever.
Before an attack, the platoon pools all its available cash and the survivors divide it up afterwards. Those who are killed can’t complain, the wounded would have given far more than that to escape as they have, and the unwounded regard the money as a consolation prize for still being here.