Verse is not written, it is bled; Out of the poet's abstract head. Words drip the poem on the page; Out of his grief, delight and rage.

Each memorable verse of a true poet has two or three times the written content.

But maybe it's up in the hills under the leaves or in a ditch somewhere. Maybe it's never found. But what you find, whatever you find, is always only part of the missing, and writing is the way the poet finds out what it is he found.

I’m alone with the ghost of the swamp, somewhere near the weeping willows.

That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face - that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.

As far as you can avoid it, do not give grief to anyone. Never inflict your rage on another. If you hope for eternal rest, feel the pain yourself; but don’t hurt others.