I'm tired of being this solemn poet of the masses, the enigma shrouded in a mystery.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I'm uncomfortable with the focus on the poet and not on the poem.
I came to poetry through the urgent need to denounce injustice, exploitation, humiliation. I know that's not enough to change the world. But to remain silent would have been a kind of intolerable complicity.
As long as there's been poetry, there have been lamentations.
I wouldn't be very happy if a poet read what I had written and said, 'What a peculiar thing to say about this work of mine.'
I shall try to write a poem that is about the moment but doesn't betray things that are true to me as a poet.
It hardly seems worthwhile to point out the shortsightedness of those practitioners who would have us believe that the form of the poem is merely its shape.
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
The thing that fiction can do is look from the inside out rather than from the outside in. Even memoir leaves me somewhat frustrated. I think now we need a poet to uncover what isn't on the surface.
But now I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.
There is nothing settled about a poet's identity. The becoming doesn't stop because the being has been achieved. They proceed together, attached in ways that are hard to be exact about.