JAMES SCHUYLER

I wish i could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.

Looking at the sky last night and the moon in the first fresh dark, just a few stars, bright with their cold flares, I had a little crumpled thought, 'Oh well, the moon. It's just another place like California.' One's imagination drags its feet as we are inexorably hauled into the future.

What are the questions you wish to ask?

It is always pleasant to learn that someone takes an interest in a work which one enjoyed writing.

However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.

The aim of the poet, or other artist, is first to make something; and it's impossible to make something out of words and not communicate.

To change your phrase somewhat, I know that I like an art where disparate elements form an entity.

In the past I have declined to comment on my own work: because, it seems to me, a poem is what it is; because a poem is itself a definition, and to try to redefine it is to be apt to falsify it; and because the author is the person least able to consider his work objectively.

A nothing day full of wild beauty .... Little fish stream by, a river in water.

I do not usually revise much, though I often cut, particularly the end or toward the end of a poem.

However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.

It is always pleasant to learn that someone takes an interest in a work which one enjoyed writing.

To change your phrase somewhat, I know that I like an art where disparate elements form an entity.

I do not usually revise much, though I often cut, particularly the end or toward the end of a poem.

The aim of the poet, or other artist, is first to make something; and it's impossible to make something out of words and not communicate.

It seems to me that readers sometimes make the genesis of a poem more mysterious than it is (by that I perhaps mean, think of it as something outside their own experience).

However, intention needn't enter in, and if a reader sees things in a religious way, and the work is dogmatically acceptable, then I don't see why it should not be interpreted in that way, as well as in others.

Well, if this is poetry, I'm certainly never going to write any myself.

In the past I have declined to comment on my own work: because, it seems to me, a poem is what it is; because a poem is itself a definition, and to try to redefine it is to be apt to falsify it; and because the author is the person least able to consider his work objectively.

One tends to write beyond what's needed.

I wish i could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.

Looking at the sky last night and the moon in the first fresh dark, just a few stars, bright with their cold flares, I had a little crumpled thought, 'Oh well, the moon. It's just another place like California.' One's imagination drags its feet as we are inexorably hauled into the future.

Snow falling softly on lashes of eyes you love, and a cold cheek growing warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.

A nothing day full of wild beauty .... Little fish stream by, a river in water.

What are the questions you wish to ask?