Corncobs Are The Greatest Fire-making

To Eat In The Same Room Where Food Is Cooked - That Is The Way To Thank The Lord For His Abundance.

The Corncob Was The Central Object Of My Life. My Father Was A Horse Handler, First Trotting And Pacing Horses, Then Coach Horses, Then Work Horses, Finally Saddle Horses. I Grew Up Around, On, And Under Horses, Fed Them, Shoveled Their Manure, Emptied The Mangers Of Corncobs.

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.

Corncobs Are The Greatest Fire-making Tinder.

Has The Painter Not Always Gone To An Art School, Or At Least To An Established Master, For Instruction? And The Composer, The Sculptor, The Architect? Then Why Not The Writer? Good Poets, Like Good Hybrid Corn, Are Both Born And Made.