A prose writer gets tired of writing prose, and wants to be a poet. So he begins every line with a capital letter, and keeps on writing prose.

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.

Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.

Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.

I’ve written some poetry I don’t understand myself.

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.

A poet is a bird of unearthly excellence, who escapes from his celestial realm arrives in this world warbling. If we do not cherish him, he spreads his wings and flies back into his homeland.

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you.

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

The poet is in the end probably more afraid of the dogmatist who wants to extract the message from the poem and throw the poem away than he is of the sentimentalist who says, Oh, just let me enjoy the poem.