The point of poetry is to be acutely discomforting, to prod and provoke, to poke us in the eye, to punch us in the nose, to knock us off our feet, to take our breath away.

Words want to find chimes with each other, things want to connect.

I certainly am interested in accessibility, clarity, and immediacy.

The ground swell is what’s going to sink you as well as being what buoys you up. These are clichés also, of course, and I’m sometimes interested in how much one can get away with.

One will never again look at a birch tree, after the Robert Frost poem, in exactly the same way.

Form is a straitjacket in the way that a straitjacket was a straitjacket for Houdini.

Confusion is what we're living with - not being able to make sense of what's happening to us from day to day. Whereas making sense is what we're aiming for - making sense.

That's one of the great things about poetry; one realises that one does one's little turn - that you're just part of the great crop, as it were.

I believe that these devices like repetition and rhyme are not artificial, that they're not imposed, somehow, on the language.

I suppose for whatever reason I actively welcome being put down, something which perhaps goes back to my upbringing - that accusation of not being worthy which could be laid at one's door.

If the poem has no obvious destination, there's a chance that we'll be all setting off on an interesting ride.

Courage is the complement of fear. A man who is fearless cannot be courageous. [He is also a fool.]

He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Two hours isn’t going to be enough time.” She grinned, rocking her hips. “We’d better make it count.

I was falling back again and fast, or maybe I’d never stopped feeling something for him. And it was still hopeless, but at least, I could touch him a little bit.

If you think something is impossible, don't disturb the person who is doing it!

I have never met a dog I couldn't help; however, I have met humans who weren't willing to change.

To express the emotions of life is to live. To express the life of emotions is to make art.

Ah, but the servant waits, while the master baits.

It is no longer enough to point out what we don't like, we have to work out 'What sort of society do we want?

You consume me I don't even fight Oh, I feel intoxicated... But beware I bite.

A fretful temper will divide the closest knot that may be tied, by ceaseless sharp corrosion; a temper passionate and fierce may suddenly your joys disperse at one immense explosion.