An Old Poet Ought Never To Be

Poetry Is Ultimately Mythology, The Telling Of Stories Of The Soul. The Old Myths, The Old Gods, The Old Heroes Have Never Died. They Are Only Sleeping At The Bottom Of Our Minds, Waiting For Our Call. We Have Need Of Them, For In Their Sum They Epitomize The Wisdom And Experience Of The Race.

Not That You Need To Be A Saint To Have Visions Worth Talking About. The Most Effective Prescription, I Suspect, Is To Be A Disciplined Sinner. Perfection, As Valery Noted, Is Work.

Rhythm To Me Is Essentially What Hopkins Called The Taste Of Self. I Taste Myself As Rhythm.

The Poem In The Head Is Always Perfect. Resistance Begins When You Try To Convert It Into Language.

The Poem Comes In The Form Of A Blessing, Like Rapture Breaking On The Mind.