Poetry Cannot Afford To Lose Its Fundamentally

The Bogholes Might Be Atlantic Seepage. The Wet Centre Is Bottomless.

The Main Thing Is To Write For The Joy Of It. Cultivate A Work-lust That Imagines Its Haven Like Your Hands At Night Dreaming The Sun In The Sunspot Of A Breast. You Are Fasted Now, Light-headed, Dangerous. Take Off From Here.

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.

I Can't Think Of A Case Where Poems Changed The World, But What They Do Is They Change People's Understanding Of What's Going On In The World.

There Is Risk And Truth To Yourselves And The World Before You.