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Poets Have No Biographies[1]

For such Happiness of being a Writer, I would be ready to En-

Dure Poverty, Disappointment, the Dislike of those around me[2]

Poems are Porous constructs – Life Flows and Seeps in and out[3]

On all the Shores of the World a Fiercer Iambic Verse to be Fed from my Being[4]

A Poet is must Say the Unsayable, must not remain Silent on occasions when All are

Silent, and who must therefore be Careful not to Talk about things that All Talk about[5]

I resolve at once to become a Great Man – and to commence by becoming a Great Poet[6]

I spend my days Pounding out Disconnected Sentences for the Sheer Love of Words[7]

New Verses are born at the Hazard of Chance or Inspiration, one word

Leading to another and each finding, in its turn, its Rhythm and Place[8]

Writing is an act of Silencing a Creature Flapping about Within me –

On the Page the Monster becomes something Different, Released

From the Recesses within me and Free to Unsettle another Mind[9]

True Poetry is what does not pretend to be Poetry – It is in the

Dogged Drafts of a few Maniacs seeking the New Encounter[10]

[1] Nicanor Parra tr. Miller Williams, Sentences

[2] Anton Chekhov tr. Constance Garnett, The Sea-Gull

[3] Paul Celan tr. Pierre Joris, Microliths

[4] Saint-John Perse tr. Denis Devlin, Exile

[5] Hannah Arendt, Men in Dark Times

[6] Edgar Allan Poe, The Literary Life of Thingum Bob, Esq.

[7] Richard Wright, Black Boy

[8] Ousmane Sembène, God’s Bits of Wood

[9] Mya De La Rosa, Rattle Young Poet’s Anthology Contributor’s Notes

[10] Francis Ponge tr. Beth Archer, The Silent World Is Our Only Homeland

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