Elegance Ceases To Exist When It Is

The Poet, By Composing Poems, Uses A Language That Is Neither Dead Nor Living, That Few People Speak, And Few People Understand We Are The Servants Of An Unknown Force That Lives Within Us, Manipulates Us, And Dictates This Language To Us.

Take A Commonplace, Clean It And Polish It, Light It So That It Produces The Same Effect Of Youth And Freshness And Originality And Spontaneity As It Did Originally, And You Have Done A Poet's Job. The Rest Is Literature.

You Are Always Concentrated On The Inner Thing. The Moment One Becomes Aware Of The Crowd, Performs For The Crowd, It Is Spectacle.

The Skin Of All Of Us Is Responsive To Gypsy Songs And Military Marches.

One Is Either Judge Or Accused. The Judge Sits, The Accused Stands. Live On Your Feet.