The Art of Poetry No. 95 (Interviewer)
“I was left with myself and had to do the one thing I could to survive. I knew it would be difficult to write, very difficult, but I set about doing it.”
“I was left with myself and had to do the one thing I could to survive. I knew it would be difficult to write, very difficult, but I set about doing it.”
Surely it’s ridiculous maybe even scandalous
that I feel such overpowering envy
for the eleven-year-old son who’s dozing
I tried, and each attempt was a fiasco.
I yearned, but every love of mine was wrong.
I needed, and the shame was overwhelming.
When cloud cover com-
plicates the crossing
all we can do is look
He was middle-aged which
means that the mixture of
death and life in him was
the train has left the
station you can’t take it.
Once the promise has been
This world so
golden so un-
reachable this
If a man is his desire
if a man is his desire
if a man is his desire
When as a child
I came to be schooled by the Muses,
one of them took me by the hand,
Probably
evening is falling. Not because of the years,
which are numerous, but because the play
When, out of the blue. Saint Martin shakes
his embers down, stirring the fire in the bottom pit
of Ontario’s black furnace—