Spring**

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and from moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

aunt lucy during the recent

war could and what

is more did tell you just

what everybody was fighting

for,

my sister

isabel created hundreds

(and

hundreds)of socks not to

mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers

etcetera wristers etcetera, my

mother hoped that

i would die etcetera

bravely of course my father used

to become hoarse talking about how it was

a privilege and if only he

could meanwhile my

self etcetera lay quietly

in the deep mud et
cetera

(dreaming,

et

  cetera, of

Your smile

eyes knees and of your Etcetera)

i am afraid
that my nervous energy
and my accustomedness to lack of sleep
will soon drag you down with me
into my depression-well
where i like to drown myself
when i do and don't deserve it

and i am afraid
that you will soon tire of my antics
my fears and my sloth
and i will force you to do what you fear:
hurt me
i'll deserve every pinch of every nerve
when you leave my bed cold

and the waters will come
as they always do
faithful as my self-loathing
and i will drown in the absence you'll leave

but you'll be better off, Love.

D(Li
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F
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i
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Th
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**
nl
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A
Th
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**
l
dO
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l(a
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness

i memorize your smile (crinkling
newspaper -just the comics section- rubbing off  indelibly on fingers) in curl of my eyelashes
i remember your eyes (so beautiful they require existence
trees and stars and baby's fingernails) in the place where singing comes from
i impress your voice (thunderstorm without lightning, roar without lion, waterfall without rocks) in the spaces between my fingers
i save your kindness (dog patiently loving the persons particular, but more amazing because of humanity) in the souls of my feet
i carry your heart (I carry it in
my heart

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feeling through words.

This may sound easy. It isn't.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel - but that's thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling - not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself - in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else - means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.

As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possibly imagine. Why?

Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time - and whenever we do it, we are not poets.

If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world - unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal? It isn't.

It's the most wonderful life on earth.

Or so I feel.

I can play cards.

La sexualidad sera discutida por las mentes mas brillantes del mundo haber que hacen…