poet

Your flesh is not a reflection of your soul. So when you look in the mirror, remember that your light outshines your flaws.

My heart's scripture tastes foreign in the mouths of cowards and on the tongues of those who have never breathed inthe moon and breathed out the world.

Life is so beautiful and so short that anything that makes me feel less than too much is nothing at all.

I am in awe of flowers. Not because of their colors, but because even though they have dirt in their roots, they still grow. They still bloom.

What is the finding of love, but a voice answering a voice?

Whatever is language is poetic language and if the word required by the poet does not exist in his known language then it is up to him to discover it.

A Writer in Love.I was just a word weaverWhat did I know of love?Only thatSome days when the words weren__ enough,I knewI was in love.

TO A GIRAFFE If it is unpermissible, in fact fatal to be personal and undesirable to be literal__etrimental as well if the eye is not innocent-does it mean that one can live only on top leaves that are small reachable only by a beast that is tall?_ of which the giraffe is the best example_ the unconversational animal. When plagued by the psychological, a creature can be unbearable that could have been irresistible; or to be exact, exceptional since less conversational than some emotionally-tied-in-knots animal. After all consolations of the metaphysical can be profound. In Homer, existence is flawed; transcendence, conditional; __he journey from sin to redemption, perpetual.

ROSEMARY Beauty and Beauty__ son and rosemary_ Venus and Love, her son, to speak plainly_ born of the sea supposedly, at Christmas each, in company, braids a garland of festivity. Not always rosemary_ since the flight to Egypt, blooming differently. With lancelike leaf, green but silver underneath, its flowers__hite originally_ turned blue. The herb of memory, imitating the blue robe of Mary, is not too legendary to flower both as symbol and as pungency. Springing from stones beside the sea, the height of Christ when thirty-three_ it feeds on dew and to the bee __ath a dumb language_; is in reality a kind of Christmas-tree.

TO VICTOR HUGO OF MY CROW PLUTO __ven when the bird is walking we know that it has wings.___ICTOR HUGO Of: my crow Pluto, the true Plato, azzurronegro green-blue rainbow_ Victor Hugo, it is true we know that the crow __as wings,_ however pigeon-toe- inturned on grass. We do. (adagio) Vivorosso __orvo,_ although con dizionario io parlo Italiano_ this pseudo Esperanto which, savio ucello you speak too_ my vow and motto (botto e totto) io giuro è questo credo: lucro è peso morto. And so dear crow_ gioièllo mio_ I have to let you go; a bel bosco generoso, tuttuto vagabondo, serafino uvaceo Sunto, oltremarino verecondo Plato, a

In the days of Prismatic Colornot in the days of Adam and Eve, but when Adam was alone; when there was no smoke and color was fine, not with the refinement of early civilization art, but because of its originality; with nothing to modify it but the mist that went up, obliqueness was a variation of the perpendicular, plain to see and to account for: it is no longer that; nor did the blue-red-yellow band of incandescence that was color keep its stripe

Paint me perfect poetry.

In The End The Words Are The All And The Nothing.

The poet is a faker / Who's so good at his act / He even fakes the pain / Of pain he feels in fact.

writing home"here in the wilderness of australiawriting home becomes easyin spite of the spreading wild firesthere is less heat, more certainty.writing home, writing thisi think of those without real homes__ur city, people say, provides houseswhich do not, often, bring one home.

A chronic poet should always be an inveterate nature-lover.

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.

I once began to ask around what constitutes a good poem. It felt petty, in a sense. A boy would need no help in deciding which girls he thinks are pretty.