Round and round, like a dance of snow, In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go, Floating the women faded for ages, Sculptured in stone on the poet's pages
Robert Browning
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness
Robert Frost
A subject for a great poet would be God's boredom after the seventh day of Creation
Friedrich Nietzsche
Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells That the wind sways above a ruined shrine. Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine. Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod. They shall not live who have not tasted death. They only sing who are struck dumb by God.
I'm bleeding all my life.
My squeezed mind sweats past times habit.
My strangled heart drips future sadness.
Savour my blood to keep me alive.
And keep it away from the stray bats.
last modified on Mon 20 Jun 2005