How could a man, barnacled as rock
at low tide, rank as seaweed,
have a story worth listening to
by a prince enamored of the moon?
a squirrel is hurling insults, and beneath his screeches the cicadas
insist and sigh, insist and sigh, unmoved by his grandiloquent snit.
3) May the poem on which you’ve just given up be accepted by the journal you’ve forgotten.
4) May someone quote your work in a movie that has nothing to do with poetry.
Because the trip was no less important than the getting there. Because the building-up was marred by the tearing-down. Each in its own way calls for commitment. In an age … Continue reading
I could not be a poet without the natural world. Someone else could. But not me. For me the door to the woods is the door to the temple.
You think of Sigmund Freud. You have a little bust of him on your desk, one you bought at the Freud home when you and your wife were in Vienna. … Continue reading
A ley line is a fairy path to the Irish, a dragon line to the Chinese, a djinnway to Arabs, a spirit line to the Incas, a songline to the … Continue reading