If You Have The Words, There's Always

In Off The Moors, Down Through The Mist Beams, God-cursed Grendel Came Greedily Loping.

It Is Difficult At Times To Repress The Thought That History Is About As Instructive As An Abattoir.

Publication Is Rather Like Pushing The Boat Out; Then The Boat/book Turns Into A Melting Ice Floe And You Have To Conjure A Second Boat Which Again Turns Into A Melting Floe Under Your Feet. All The Stepping Stones That You Conjure Disappear Under The Water Behind You.

Poetry Cannot Afford To Lose Its Fundamentally Self-delighting Inventiveness, Its Joy In Being A Process Of Language As Well As A Representation Of Things In The World.

I Suppose I'm Saying That Defiance Is Actually Part Of The Lyric Job