I despair of ever writing excellent poetry.

I don't think I knew what real poetry was till I read Keats a couple of years ago.

I will not leave a corner of my consciousness covered up, but saturate myself with the strange and extraordinary new conditions of this life, and it will all refine itself into poetry later on.

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Dividing earth and sky
is not the right way
to think about this wholeness.
It only allows one to live
at a more precise address--
were I to be searched for
I'd be found much faster.
My distinguishing marks
are rapture and despair.


From 'Sky', in the collection 'Miracle Fair