I bought one of those anti-bullying wristbands when they first came out. I say 'bought', I actually stole it off a short, fat ginger kid.
Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself.
Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.
A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the-surely not always strong-hope that it may somehow wash up somewhere, perhaps on the shoreline of the heart. In this way, too, poems are en route: they are headed towards. Toward what? Toward something open, inhabitable, an approachable you, perhaps, an approachable reality. Such realities are, I think, at stake in a poem.
Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.
German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry. . . . Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts "beauty. " It tries to be truthful.
So long as we are loved by others I should say that we are almost indispensable; and no man is useless while he has a friend.
The most strongly enforced of all known taboos is the taboo against knowing who or what you really are behind the mask of your apparently separate, independent, and isolated ego.
Wherever there's opportunity, the mafia will be there.
Fear not because God is with you.