In The Pit Of Red You Hid

I Think It Was Milosz, The Polish Poet, Who When He Lay In A Doorway And Watched The Bullets Lifting The Cobbles Out Of The Street Beside Him Realised That Most Poetry Is Not Equipped For Life In A World Where People Actually Die. But Some Is.

The Bush Administration Doesn't Particularly Like Public Participation. It Makes Them Look Bad.

What’s Writing Really About? It’s About Trying To Take Fuller Possession Of The Reality Of Your Life.

The Brassy Wood-pigeons Bubble Their Colourful Voices, And The Sun Rises Upon A World Well-tried And Old.

I Shall Also Take You Forth And Carve Our Names Together In A Yew Tree, Haloed With Stars.