We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me As Writing - I Suppose That's What A Vocation Means - At Times A Torment, A Bad Conscience, But All In All, Purpose And Direction.