The Winter Does What It Can For

I Don't Look On Poetry As Closed Works. I Feel They're Going On All The Time In My Head And I Occasionally Snip Off A Length.

A Perfect Example Of The New Republic's Urge To Drape Itself With The Togas Of Classical Respectability.

Its A Bit Mad. Too Bad, I Mean, That Getting To Know Each Just For A Fleeting Second Must Be Replaced By Unperfect Knowledge Of The Featureless Whole Like Some Pocket History Of The World, So General As To Constitute A Sob Or Wail

The Winter Does What It Can For Its Children.

Poetry Comes To Me Out Of Thin Air Or Out Of My Unconscious Mind. It's Sort Of The Way Dreams Come To Us And The Way That We Get Knowledge From Them, Through Television, Old Movies, Which I Watch A Lot Of. Lines Of Dialogue Suddenly Seem To Be Part Of A Poem.