Not Fare Well, But Fare Forward

Poetry May Make Us From Time To Time A Little More Aware Of The Deeper, Unnamed Feelings Which Form The Substratum Of Our Being, To Which We Rarely Penetrate; For Our Lives Are Mostly A Constant Evasion Of Ourselves.

Poetry Is A Mug's Game.

At The Still Point Of The Turning World. Neither Flesh Nor Fleshless; Neither From Nor Towards; At The Still Point, There The Dance Is, But Neither Arrest Nor Movement. And Do Not All It Fixity, Where Past And Future Are Gathered. Neither Movement From Nor Towards, Neither Ascent Nor Decline. Except For The Point, The Still Point, There Would Be No Dance, And There Is Only The Dance.

When A Poet's Mind Is Perfectly Equipped For Its Work, It Is Constantly Amalgamating Disparate Experience ?in The Mind Of The Poet These Experiences Are Always Forming New Wholes.

I Said To My Soul, Be Still, And Let The Dark Come Upon You Which Shall Be The Darkness Of God. . . . So The Darkness Shall Be The Light, And The Stillness The Dancing.