Love grows by not giving to us. And if our passion for poetry lives on and persists, it is because poetry offers us only its bits of lint.

If anything needs love it is reality, for it is reality that lacks it the most - I doubt that it was ever loved.

All that we are and all that we've ever felt, words have felt it first.

You are walking in a desert.You hear a bird singing.As absurd as it may seem for a bird to be pending in the desert,you are obligated to make it a tree.That's poem

I've grown extremely tired of the face of the world.

Life's essential length is only a few pages long, as succinct as a line of verse and as brief as the title of a poem.

I write very rarely. Only, in fact, when the sheet of paper suffers an existential crisis and threatens, if I don't surrender to it, to bury me alive under its whiteness.

I don't aspire, but I would be very happy if one of my poems suddenly offered someone a shady rest stop, a breather in our interminable march under the murderous, scorching heat of the superfluous.

Poetry contains love and holds it in high esteem, even though love always humiliates it by using it merely as a soothing after-shave lotion.

What I try to do is to keep emotion on a tight leash; otherwise, it can never be transubstantiated into poetry.

Poetry relishes ripe fruit - but ripe is one thing and overripe quite another. That's something poetry doesn't like, so it couldn't care less if I were to fall overripe to the ground.

There is power in controlling something that can do so much damage-in controlling something, period.

People are attracted more towards bad things because being good has been turned into a boring duty. No adrenaline & dopamine rush, no rewards!

When we drop fear, we can draw nearer to people, we can draw nearer to the earth, we can draw nearer to all the heavenly creatures that surround us.

When we think of cruelty, we must try to remember the stupidity, the envy, the frustration from which it has arisen.

A lonely man is a lonesome thing, a stone, a bone, a stick, a receptacle for Gilbey's gin, a stooped figure sitting at the edge of a hotel bed, heaving copious sighs like the autumn wind.

I am a marginally employed person who can escape with my school teacher wife to the waters of Maine for much of the summer.

She felt as if she were brimming, always producing and hoarding more love inside her. But there was no release.

I fell in love with Rwanda the moment I saw those verdant, rolling hills rise up beneath the wings of the plane as we descended toward Kigali airport.

I don't really have a problem 'cause I know who these people are, I know that they're scared to death. I know these leftists with scared and they oppose and that they're inflexible.

Long live Iraq! Long live the Iraqi people! Down with the traitors!