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Everyone needs solitude, especially a person who is used to thinking about what she experiences. Solitude is very important in my work as a mode of inspiration, but isolation is not good in this respect. I am not writing poetry about isolation.
Generally speaking, life is so rich and full of variety; you have to remember all the time that there is a comical side to everything.
There's simply too much fuss about myself.
Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still
Sometimes I write quickly, sometimes I spend several weeks on a single poem. I would really love for readers not to be able to guess which of the poems took so much work!
Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice?
All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination.
Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.
Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous "I don't know.
Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.
Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.
No one feels good at four in the morning. If ants feel good at four in the morning —three cheers for the ants.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I am who I am. A coincidence no less unthinkable than any other.
No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.
When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it.
When it comes, you’ll be dreaming that you don’t need to breathe; that breathless silence is the music of the dark and it’s part of the rhythm to vanish like a spark.
But they know about us, they know, the four corners, and the chairs nearby us. Discerning shadows also know, and even the table keeps quiet.
Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries.
I'm one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.
A Note Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the sand, rise on wings; to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur; to tell pain from everything it's not; to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes. An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off; and if only once to stumble upon a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another, mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes; and to keep on not knowing something important.
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