Javier Chevanton don't speak the language too good.
Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.
Uniformity, in its motives, its goals, its far-ranging consequences, is the natural enemy of poetry, not to mention the enemy of trees, the soil, the exemplary life therein.
It is a function of poetry to locate those zones inside us that would be free, and declare them so.
Poetry takes you into the recesses of the language, the neglected corners, cracks and crannies and to the big sky of wonder. It opens the door to a critique without which you have rather boring analytical tools by comparison. To cultivate poetry means to stay with it. Not to abandon hope, but to abide.
One opinion I share with the Dadaists is that art-making presupposes a revolutionary state of mind. Assimilating the practice into commodity or symbol of status nullifies its fundamental aims; therefore at the center of my own adherence to to this ranginess in taste is that it doesn't add up to membership in a private club. The differences choose me. There are so many approaches, so many innovative moves, so many oddly shaped ears in the field; may they never sing in unison.
I am suggesting that the radical of poetry lies not in the resolution of doubts but in their proliferation
Christian hope is not a ghost and it does not deceive. It is a theological virtue and therefore, ultimately, a gift from God that cannot be reduced to optimism, which is only human. God does not mislead hope; God cannot deny himself. God is all promise.
Let there be a heaven so that man may outlive his grasses.
Take my heart and mold it; take my mind, transform it; take my will, conform it - to Yours, to Yours, to Yours.
We live in an age of seriously crap mass clothing. They've made a science of it.