There is one thing that matters, to set a chime of words tinkling in the minds of a few fastidious people.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
More people than ever are slowly but surely turning their ears toward poetry.
Sometimes writing has to be forced. In starting out, the shape and timbre and texture of what is to come is an uncertain chimera shimmering from behind a veil. You must not wait, loiter, dilly-dally. You must force your way painfully through.
There's something about the shape that a poem takes in my mind before I write it that has to do with suddenness.
The march of the human mind is slow.
Words want to find chimes with each other, things want to connect.
How wonderful it would be to scatter words as they rise to consciousness, to let them lie where they fall.
I want to prove that if you write in strict meter and rhyme about subjects people care about, they will buy poetry.
Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm.
To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
Instead of looking outside of ourselves and counting potential enemies, fasting summons us to turn our glance inward, and to take the measure of our greatest challenge: the self, the ego, in our own eyes and as others see us.