The middle of the road is where the white line is - and that's the worst place to drive.

Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.

The way a crow Shook down on me. The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood. And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

A bird half wakened in the lunar noonSang halfway through its little inborn tune.

Poetry is about the grief. Politics is about the grievance.

Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.