poems

& love is an evil word. Turn it backwards/see, see what I mean? An evol word.

In the moonlight and under the stars Somehow your face seems clearer I revere your presence and remember We are warriors Thrusted onto this plane We are strong We must use our strength While bearing compassionIt's easy to get lost This place makes it so easy to get lost But- In the moonlight and under the stars Somehow your presence seems clearer And I remember We are warriors

I do understand that they fall when I'm least able to pay attention because poems fall not from a tree, really, but from the richly pollinated boughs of an ordinary life, buzzing, as lives do, with clamor and glory. They are easy to miss but everywhere: poetry just is, whether we revere it or try to put it in prison. It is elementary grace, communicated from one soul to another.

As long as music survives, poetry will never die.

Great writers experience their dreams. They put them on paper, where others can read about them.

My only wish is to be buried with my books.

A book is a place where my reality, escapism, hope, despair, love and death lie.

To translate a poem from thinking into English takes all night.

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

and everyone wants to read the poem we__e afraid to write.

my poetry is merely a body.you are the soul in my words.

...so i will greet youin a wayall loved thingsare meant to be greetedwith a tear in my heartand a poem in my eye.

Rejoice with glitters of ashes tonightSparkling for moon's spiced silver biteUpon skin of darkness, loving night moreStorm begins unlocking cold wind's door

He moves in darkness as it seems to meNot of woods only and the shade of trees.

I lovehow grown childrenwill still nametheir mothersthe mostbeautiful.It isas though,their eyeshave met the cascadingcurvesand goldensilhouettesof every woman.Yettheir soulsstilldrumto the beat_ of theirmother'swarmth and care.

She was born of space. And starlight. But she bled wrath. And vengeance.."[From Current Work In Progress]

[L]ife is a phenomenon in need of criticism, for we are, as fallen creatures, in permanent danger of worshipping false gods, of failing to understand ourselves and misinterpreting the behaviour of others, of growing unproductively anxious or desirous, and of losing ourselves to vanity and error. Surreptitiously and beguilingly, then, with humour or gravity, works of art--novels, poems, plays, paintings or films--can function as vehicles to explain our condition to us. They may act as guides to a truer, more judicious, more intelligent understanding of the world.

It is not given to each of usTo be desired.