I Wanted To Write Poetry Almost A

The Years Rolled Their Brutal Course Down The Hill Of Time. Still Poor, My Clothes Still Smelling Of The Horse Barn, Still Writing Those Doubtful Poems Where Too Much Emotion Clashed With Too Many Words.

Has The Painter Not Always Gone To An Art School, Or At Least To An Established Master, For Instruction? And The Composer, The Sculptor, The Architect? Then Why Not The Writer? Good Poets, Like Good Hybrid Corn, Are Both Born And Made.

There Must Be An Alternative Between Hollywood And New York, Between Those Two Places Psychically As Well As Geographically. The University Of Iowa Tries To Offer Such A Community, Congenial To The Young Writer, With His Uneasiness About Writing As An Honorable Career, Or With His Excess Of Ego About Calling Himself A Writer.

A Barn With Cattle And Horses Is The Place To Begin Christmas; After All, That's Where The Original Event Happened, And That Same Smell Was The First Air That The Christ Child Breathed.

Without Vision You Don't See, And Without Practicality The Bills Don't Get Paid.