I Thought Originally When I

Introduction To Poetry I Ask Them To Take A Poem And Hold It Up To The Light Like A Color Slide Or Press An Ear Against Its Hive. I Say Drop A Mouse Into A Poem And Watch Him Probe His Way Out, Or Walk Inside The Poem's Room And Feel The Walls For A Light Switch. I Want Them To Waterski Across The Surface Of A Poem Waving At The Author's Name On The Shore. But All They Want To Do Is Tie The Poem To A Chair With Rope And Torture A Confession Out Of It. They Begin Beating It With A Hose To Find Out What It Really Means.

I Can Hear The Library Humming In The Night, A Choir Of Authors Murmuring Inside Their Books Along The Unlit, Alphabetical Shelves, Giovanni Pontano Next To Pope, Dumas Next To His Son, Each One Stitched Into His Own Private Coat, Together Forming A Low, Gigantic Chord Of Language.

It Seems Only Yesterday I Used To Believe There Was Nothing Under My Skin But Light. If You Cut Me I Could Shine.

Until Recently, I Thought 'occasional Poetry' Meant That You Wrote Only Occasionally.

I Always Think W.s. Merwin's Poems Will Last Of Anyone Writing Today. If I Had To Bet On Posterity I Would Bet Merwin. My Poems Could Easily Evaporate. So I Don't Know. If You Find Yourself As A Writer Thinking About Posterity You Should Probably Go Out For A Brisk Walk Or Something.