There is no house like the house of belonging.
Vulnerability is not a weakness but a faculty for understanding.
Poetry is the art of overhearing ourselves say things from which it is impossible to retreat.
There’s a fierce practicality and empiricism which the whole imaginative, lyrical aspect of poetry comes from.
It might be liberating to think of human life as informed by losses and disappearances as much as by gifted appearances, allowing a more present participation and witness to the difficulty of living.
Poetry is a street fighter. It has sharp elbows. It can look after itself. Poetry can’t be used for manipulation; it’s why you never see good poetry in advertising.
By definition, poetry works with qualities and dynamics that mainstream society is reluctant to face head-on. It’s an interesting phenomenon that by necessity, poetry is just below the radar.
A soul-based workplace asks things of me that I didn’t even know I had. It’s constantly telling me that I belong to something large in the world.
Being a good parent will necessarily break our hearts as we watch a child grow and eventually choose their own way, even through many of the same heartbreaks we have traversed.
Poetry is a break for freedom.
It is the province of poetry to be more realistic and present than the artificial narratives of an outer discourse, and not afraid of the truthful difficulty of the average human life.
The outlaw is the radical, the one close to the roots of existence. The one who refuses to forget their humanity and, in remembering, helps everyone else remember, too.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
A real conversation always contains an invitation. You are inviting another person to reveal herself or himself to you, to tell you who they are or what they want.
The great poems are not about experience, but are the experience itself, felt in the body.
Poetry is often the art of overhearing yourself say things you didn’t know you knew. It is a learned skill to force yourself to articulate your life, your present world or your possibilities for the future.
Honesty is reached through the doorway of grief and loss.
A good poem looks life straight in the face, unflinching, sincere, equal to revelation through loss or gain.
If I don’t have time for the writing, it’s because I’m not making that time. It’s really just a question of whether you want to or not, whether you feel you deserve to write or not.
The fear of loss, in one form or another, is the motivator behind all conscious and unconscious dishonesties.
A good poem has its own life. It’s like bringing a child into the world. You, the poet, birthed the child, but the child will surprise you continually. I think a work of art has its own aliveness, its own future.