After working in the prison yard, a man in his cell turns to his thoughts to hear deeply: God be praised!
Late at night, a man standing on a subway platform, the trees the homes everything beyond.
You move thru every place, and the feeling persists: some other place home - the memory a fall. But could this feeling be due to just being out of sorts? it has been experienced by others thruout history: it can't be just alienation: the man moves, the angel illuminates, the one the other harmonious, full common society the ground the Holy Spirit the foundation the Way toward final release.
We are now into the days (now) when to expect words from another can cause collapse if the words don't come. Some poets stay amidst nature because they feel - I guess - that to stay in the city is to be abstract: they - unknowingly, of course, falsify: in the country does not guaranty poetry; on the contrary, it is possible (to pay lip service) (to tip one's hat) to the natural sciences under such conditions, that is, the poetic activity there is referable to the position here in the sense that it is there in order to ease the city of its severity: consequently, poetry draws none of its force from either in city or in country. Imagery in toto is species in the Image.
What is better than what a thing is like - even tho what is can only be gotten at suggestively. The practicing of the art of poetry should be enough for the young, but it seems that (the competition competitiveness of situations) forces them to consider making it as the sole (stamp of victory approval). I guess all young poets go thru this: how many later are willing to die for it?


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