I think that there are no new stories to be told, we have heard them all in one variation or the other, but it is how we tell those stories that makes us keep reading.

From whatever perspective one seeks to see it, one thing is certain though: On His Neglect of Prose is indeed a beautiful poem that is not to be neglected.

Spoken in the voice of the poet, Wordsworth Lied is an ambitious poem that also assumes too much, not only as it attempts to give a new definition of poetry and what it entails, but as it introduces the reader into a commonplace definition of poetry given by William Wordsworth.

Very rarely, I’ll let a poem sit and return to it weeks or months later, but this is not really my process and doesn’t often work out well for me—to write a poem, I seem to need to be in that headspace that it was first conceived...

I write to sing, and for me, each line (by line I don’t just mean the typical line a line-break makes, but each line of a sentence fragmented by a punctuation mark) must be musically self-sufficient.

I should start by saying, I don’t think of it as ‘writing’ poetry as such, but more of ‘making.’ So the writing itself often comes out of me without too much suffering, but the making is quite an ordeal.

I like how with raw simplicity and directness, one sees how a 28-line poem covers over 500 years of history. One sees how poetry is the past, present and the future.