“Howl” by Allen Ginsberg
“Persimmons” by Li-Young Lee
“Black Snake” by Mary Oliver
Poetry is a dream dreamed in the presence of reason.
A work of art is never completed, merely abandoned.
For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn’t know I already knew.
How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?
I like restraint—if doesn’t go too far.
The art of running the mile consists, in essence, of reaching the threshold of consciousness at the instant of breasting the tape.
Poetry begins where certitude ends.
Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words.
The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.
Keep your eye clear and hit ’em where they ain’t.
In the midst of our happiness we were very pleased.
Let’s play two.
There is only one plot: Things are not what they seem.