Ah, poetry. What is poetry? Honestly, I do not know. If I knew the answer to that question I guess I would have stopped writing forever but I am glad that’s not the case. Some of the old poets say things like: “In any event poetry, pure literature in general, religion I include religion, in its essential and undogmatically sense, because poetry and religion, touch each other, or rather modulate each other; are, indeed, often but different names for the same thing these, I say, the visible signs of mental and emotional life, must like all other thing keep moving, becoming…” Well, Thomas Hardy was hell of a poet. He was a man of enormous talent and he had a keen eye for minute details but I am not the same. We are different. We are not divided by centuries but by the creatures dwelling within us. They feed on modern verses. Poetry is the oldest art form, the first one but we, the poets of today are children of our own time.
Nowadays we do use old words but we put them on page in some new way. Poetry is moving on. I am not saying that there will never be again some new Dante, Pushkin or Shakespeare, but me and you and all new poets are the children of modern ways and new dimensions. We write each line with the pain of today. We use the paper of our skin and penetrate our nails deep into the poems. That is how I and all of us write and the craft of poetry is moving on that is evolving.