Polyphonic Prose Is A Kind Of Free

Moon! Moon! I Am Prone Before You. Pity Me,and Drench Me In Loneliness.

Don’t Ask A Writer What He’s Working On. It’s Like Asking Someone With Cancer On The Progress Of His Disease.

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

I Never Deny Poems When They Come; Whatever I Am Doing, Whatever I Am Writing, I Lay It Aside And Attend To The Arriving Poem.

Great Emotion Always Tends To Become Rhythmic, And Out Of That Tendency The Forms Of Art Have Been Evolved. Art Becomes Artificial Only When The Forms Take Precedence Over The Emotion.