"Sunlight's a thing that needs a window Before it enter a dark room. Windows don't happen." So two old poets, Hunched at their beer in the low haze O… - R. S. Thomas

I'm obviously not orthodox, I don't know how many real poets have ever been orthodox.

Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer Said once about the long toil that goes like blood to the poems making? Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls, Limp as bindweed, if it break at all Life's iron crust Man, you must sweat And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build Your verse a ladder.

Is there a place here for the spirit? Is there time on this brief platform for anything other than mind's failure to explain itself?