Modern poetry, for me, began not in English at all but in Spanish, in the poems of Lorca.
I think there's a kind of desperate hope built into poetry now that one really wants, hopelessly, to save the world. One is trying to say everything that can be said for the things that one loves while there's still time.
So this is what I am Pondering his eyes that could not Conceive that I was a creature to run from I who have always believed too much in words
from what we cannot hold the stars are made
I offer you what I have my Poverty
My words are the garment of what I shall never be Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy.