Poetry is the art of overhearing ourselves say things from which it is impossible to retreat. A true line acts like a lightning rod in a storm.

our hope at work may be for a quiet corner out of the mainstream rush of a world that refuses any longer to play fair. Knowing we may be left behind in the fiery rush of the company as it lifts off for another continent, the very deadness of an organization may seem like a welcome respite when faced with the swift-moving nature of postmodern busine

we know of no civilization that has lasted longer than a few thousand years. Yet we propose to bury radioactive waste that will still be dangerous up to one hundred thousand years from now. This can only be a product of what psychologists call magical thinking, the belief that somehow we will be exempted from the griefs and losses that have afflict

The poet needs the practicalities of making a living to test and temper the lyricism of insight and observation. The corporation needs the poet’s insight and powers of attention to weave the inner world of soul and creativity with the outer world of form and matter.

Soul has to do with the way a human being belongs to their world, their work, or their human community. Where there is little sense of belonging there is little sense of soul. The soulful qualities of life depend on these qualities of belonging. It seems to me that human beings are always desperate to belong to something larger than themselves. Whe

Simple elements thrown together, even at random, exhibit tremendously complex behavior. Complex behavior can suddenly give rise to simple systems, and the laws of complexity seem to hold at every level, indifferent to the elements that make up the system. A calm manager working with simple paddle strokes can ride a turbulent river of events into ca

If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern. Blake, “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell”

A famous Zen master, while weighing flax on a scale, was once asked the meaning of Zen by a student. Without taking his concentrated eyes off the scale, he adjusted the weights and said, “Three pounds of flax.”

Those with busy lives, but bereft of the inner images based on the soul’s desires, have empty larders and no fire in the hearth;