“ …love grown dutiful is love grown olda withered cupid faltering at the bow… ”
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.
~ Lenore Kandel
Like seasonless fowl we migrate…from East Coast to West Coastand back and forth again,for a job,for a friend,for a change,for a kick.
Bedtime is daytime, and we come into bloom after midnight.
Poetry is alive because it is a medium of vision and experience. It is not necessarily comfortable.It is not necessarily safe.
