Death Is Never An Ending, Death Is

The Truth--a Hideous Spectacle!

I Compelled Myself All Through To Write An Exercise In Verse, In A Different Form, Every Day Of The Year. I Turned Out My Page Every Day, Of Some Sort - I Mean I Didn't Give A Damn About The Meaning, I Just Wanted To Master The Form - All The Way From Free Verse, Walt Whitman, To The Most Elaborate Of Villanelles And Ballad Forms. Very Good Training. I've Always Told Everybody Who Has Ever Come To Me That I Thought That Was The First Thing To Do.

The One You Love Leans Forward, Smiles, Deceives You, Opens A Door Through Which You See Dark Dreams.

The Hiss Was Now Becoming A Roar - The Whole World Was A Vast Moving Screen Of Snow - But Even Now It Said Peace, It Said Remoteness, It Said Cold, It Said Sleep.

I Think We've Come To A Kind Of Splinter Period In Poetry. These Tiny Little Bright Fragments Of Observation - And Not Produced Under Sufficient Pressure - Some Of It's Very Skillful, But I Don't Think There's Anywhere A Discernible Major Poet In The Process Of Emerging; Or If He Is, I Ain't Seen Him.