I Suppose I Did Feel

Poetry Is Always Slightly Mysterious, And You Wonder What Is Your Relationship To It.

Between My Finger And My Thumb The Squat Pen Rests; Snug As A Gun. ~from The Poem "digging

It Is Difficult At Times To Repress The Thought That History Is About As Instructive As An Abattoir; That Tacitus Was Right And That Peace Is Merely The Desolation Left Behind After The Decisive Operations Of Merciless Power.

Publication Is Rather Like Pushing The Boat Out; Then The Boat/book Turns Into A Melting Ice Floe And You Have To Conjure A Second Boat Which Again Turns Into A Melting Floe Under Your Feet. All The Stepping Stones That You Conjure Disappear Under The Water Behind You.

The Way We Are Living, Timorous Or Bold, Will Have Been Our Life.