The first rule of poetry is honesty; the second rule is fuck you.

I want
to do with you what spring does to the cherry trees

I feel at times as if I were living in a Kafka nightmare of closed faces, silence, inexpressiveness. People do not reveal themselves, they do not seem even present.

And here she was, soft, yielding, imperious, pliant, seeming deeper than anyone around her emotionally, making them all appear suddenly wooden, trapped in their clothes, unable to move. She has a childlike impulsiveness, swinging between gentleness and sudden quick decisions. Her face is small, her eyes dark and mischievous, her neck so slender one feels immediately protective. Her voice has a whispering quality, her laughter is tentative and subdued. Muted tones, yet eloquent, arresting. Her authoritarianism is that of a child, and I respond to it and loved her instantly.

I do not write for them. Not for you. Not for the editors. I want to find something and I think, at least “today” I think, I will. Reaching people is mighty important, I know, but reaching the best of me is most important right now.

I guess I forgive him [Robert Lowell] for not liking me (if he didn’t like me as I thought) because he has such a soft dangerous voice. He is a good man, I forgive him for his sicknesses whatever they are. I think I will have to god him again, gods are so necessary and splendid and distant.