My heart has watched many things with me.
Sky and grasslands, deserts and oceans.
She said she saw it wasn’t mine.
I just knew what I was.
She said,
I’m not dust, I’m not grass.
Not cactus, not a living crab.
She said,
I’ll be a horse, free horse,
The brightest of all the lilies.
I’d be a monk, a wise monk,
Fireworks on their own footmongers.
- “You compare your poems with others; if some of your editors return you to your test, you are troubled. So (because you have allowed me to advise you) I ask you, give up. Look out, it is the last thing you should do now. No one can give you an idea, no one can help you. There is only one way to go inside. Please go into your heart. Explore the reason for your writing and see if its roots are deep inside you. You must confess that if you cannot write, it will surely be death.And this is the most important thing: ask yourself at the most quiet hour of your night: “Do I have to write? You will dig a deep answer in your own heart. If this answer is agreed, and you can answer this serious question with a strong and simple “I must,” then build your life according to that need; your life until the most delicate moment of its life is this sign of impulse and proof. Then you come near nature. You will practice what you see, experience, love, and what is lost, as if you were a person.Do not write love poems; avoid the fashionable and common format: they are the hardest; because there is a great amount of good or finely-revealed works, from which it takes a great and skilled force to express its own characteristics. So avoid the general subject and turn to what your daily life presents to you.And describe your sorrow and your desire, and your thoughts and your faith in a certain beauty – all of this in a deep, silent, modest and sincere way, and express yourself in what is around you, in the images of your dreams, in the objects of your memories. If you feel that your daily life is poor, do not complain about it; or be your own tribulation to yourself, not enough to be a poet to call life; for there is no poverty for the creator, nor is there any place where poverty is not incline.Even if you were in a prison, the walls would separate the world from your senses — do you not have your childhood forever, a treasure of great beauty, a treasure of memories? So focus on that. Try to pick up the moving past that has been depressed for so long; your personality will become fixed, your loneliness will grow and become a stale room, and others will only walk away from it.— If you’re going to turn back from this, and you’re going to come up with a poem from the depths of your world, you’re not going to ask anyone else, is it? You’re not going to try to get the magazine to look at these works: because you’re going to see in your work the natural product of your dearness, the fragments and the sound of your life. An art is good, if it comes from the “necessity.” In its roots, it contains a judgment about it: there is no other way.So, my distinguished gentleman, I have no other advice than to look into the heart, explore the depths of your life, and you will get answers to the question at the source, is it “must” creation?*