“Come windless invaderI am a carnival ofStars, a poem of blood.”

“He never described himself as a poet or his work as poetry. The fact that the lines do not come to the edge of the page is no guarantee. Poetry is a verdict, not an occupation. He hated to argue about the techniques of verse. The poem is a dirty, bloody, burning thing that has to be grabbed first with bare hands. Once the fire celebrated Light, the dirt Humility, the blood Sacrifice. Now the poets are professional fire-eaters, freelancing at any carnival. The fire goes down easily and honours no one in particular.”

“the poem doesn’t have stanzas, it has a body, the poem doesn’t have lines,/ it has blood, the poem is not written with letters, it’s written/ with grains of sand and kisses, petals and moments, shouts and/ uncertainties.”

“Poems have ideas. The ideas of poems come out of their emotions and their emotions are carried on images.”

“He rests in the graveyard of Ivrya suburb that alwayslooks like the daythe carnival comes down.And perhaps only I still knowthat he was alive”.”

“...and for the last three minutes on the wind of a windless day I have heard the sound of drums and flute...”