Corncobs Are The Greatest Fire-making Tinder.

But Maybe It's Up The Hills Or Under The Leaves Or In A Ditch Somewhere. Maybe It's Never Found. But What You Find, Whatever You Find, Is Only Part Of The Missing, And Writing Is The Way The Poet Finds Out What It Is He Found.

Our Small Ears Never Had Such A Workout As On The Fourth Of July, Hearing Not Only Our Own Bursting Crackers But Also Those Of Our Friends, And Often The Boom Of Homemade Cannon Shot Off By Daring Boys Of 16 Years, Ready To Lose A Hand If It Blew Up.

Poetry Is Ordinary Language Raised To The Nth Power. Poetry Is Boned With Ideas, Nerved And Blooded With Emotions, All Held Together By The Delicate, Tough Skin Of Words.

Verse Is Not Written, It Is Bled; Out Of The Poet's Abstract Head. Words Drip The Poem On The Page; Out Of His Grief, Delight And Rage.

Human Life Is Too Difficult For People.