In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines

I Am Grateful For - Though I Can't Keep Up With - The Flood Of Articles, Theses, And Textbooks That Mean To Share Insight Concerning The Nature Of Poetry.

If We Ask A Vague Question, Such As, 'what Is Poetry?' We Expect A Vague Answer, Such As, 'poetry Is The Music Of Words,' Or 'poetry Is The Linguistic Correction Of Disorder.'

Once Every Five Hundred Years Or So, A Summary Statement About Poetry Comes Along That We Can't Imagine Ourselves Living Without

With The First Step, The Number Of Shapes The Walk Might Take Is Infinite, But Then The Walk Begins To Define Itself As It Goes Along, Though Freedom Remains Total With Each Step: Any Tempting Side Road Can Be Turned Into An Impulse, Or Any Wild Patch Of Woods Can Be Explored. The Pattern Of The Walk Is To Come True, Is To Be Recognized, Discovered.

One Can't Have It Both Ways And Both Ways Is The Only Way I Want It.