In The Country Of Pain We Are

Poetry Finds Its Perilous Equilibrium Somewhere Between Music And Speech.

Women Are At Last Becoming Persons First And Wives Second, And That Is As It Should Be.

Flowers And Plants Are Silent Presences. They Nourish Every Sense Except The Ear.

How Unnatural The Imposed View, Imposed By A Puritanical Ethos, That Passionate Love Belongs Only To The Young, That People Are Dead From The Neck Down By The Time They Are Forty, And That Any Deep Feeling, Any Passion After That Age, Is Either Ludicrous Or Revolting!

The More Our Bodies Fail Us, The More Naked And More Demanding Is The Spirit, The More Open And Loving We Can Become If We Are Not Afraid Of What We Are And Of What We Feel. I Am Not A Phoenix Yet, But Here Among The Ashes, It May Be That The Pain Is Chiefly That Of New Wings Trying To Push Through.