What Happens In The Heart Simply Happens.

What’s Writing Really About? It’s About Trying To Take Fuller Possession Of The Reality Of Your Life.

The World Rolls Under The Long Thrust Of His Heel. Over The Cage Floor The Horizons Come.

One Day God Felt He Ought To Give His Workshop A Spring Clean... It Was Amazing What Ragged Bits And Pieces Came From Under His Workbench As He Swept. Beginnings Of Creatures, Bits That Looked Useful But Had Seemed Wrong, Ideas He'd Mislaid And Forgotten... There Was Even A Tiny Lump Of Sun. He Scratched His Head. What Could Be Done With All This Rubbish?

I Think It Was Milosz, The Polish Poet, Who When He Lay In A Doorway And Watched The Bullets Lifting The Cobbles Out Of The Street Beside Him Realised That Most Poetry Is Not Equipped For Life In A World Where People Actually Die. But Some Is.

It Took The Whole Of Creation To Produce My Foot, My Each Feather: Now I Hold Creation In My Foot. Or Fly Up, And Revolve It All Slowly - I Kill Where I Please Because It Is All Mine. There Is No Sophistry In My Body: My Manners Are Tearing Off Heads - The Allotment Of Death.