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.

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

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.

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.

With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.

I know I will always be attracted to the unknown as it does often verify what I am or what else I could be.

A few years ago, a priest working in a slum section of a European city was asked why he was doing it, and replied, 'So that the rumor of God may not completely disappear.

Missional leaders understand the power of connecting relationally in their community through personal networking.

He leaned over her, the sun behind his head making a halo of gold, his face lit by the reflections off the water.

Youth, which is forgiven everything, forgives itself nothing: age, which forgives itself everything, is forgiven nothing.

By steadily disciplining the animal nature, until it becomes one pointed, it is possible to establish conscious awareness of The Eternal.

Whatever is natural admits of variety.

If you know how to get fun out of the so-called discomforts, then you should know you are on the right lines.

My dad has never once told me after a fight that I did well.