Zen practice can be a tricky thing because, done right, sooner or later all the issues and energies you’ve been repressing your whole life will ooze, trickle, and burst to the surface through your tight little smile. And I’m afraid that the practice itself doesn’t necessarily equip you to deal skillfully with these issues and energies. This is one of the great misconceptions about spiritual work: that if applied correctly, it will make us “better people” (whatever that means). Zen is not a psychiatric or therapeutic discipline; it’s a spiritual one. It’s supposed to get energy moving on a deep, fundamental, life-changing level. Its purpose is to orient you toward the truth, toward reality, whatever this takes. It’s not supposed to boss you around with behavioral or self-help dictates or to shoehorn you into the slipper of well-adjusted citizenhood.
In other words, spiritual work isn’t always just “instructive” – it’s also transformative, and this kind of transformation can get messy. The Sanskrit term for this is clusterfuck.
– Shozan Jack Haubner, Zen Confidential: Confessions of a Wayward Monk

Forget the death of the author; people would much rather look at the face of the author than the text of the author. Faces. Ugly writers are beautiful. Ravaged, line-crazed, chain-smoking, alcoholic Marguerite Duras, beautiful. Bald Michel Foucault with his spectral stare, beautiful. Roland Barthes himself, with his weak chin, his doe-soft eyes, his film-noir fag and mac, beautiful. Barthes says the author is dead, but everyone wants to watch him or any author light a cigarette, eat breakfast, sip thh good wine and be an author without writing. Non-writing writers make us feel so close to them.

Konkretion, Marion May Campbell.

I can remember being young and feeling a thing and identifying it as homesickness, and then thinking well now that’s odd, isn’t it, because I was home at the time. What on earth are we to make of that?

The Broom of the System, David Foster Wallace

Each time this body (I) finds a new metaphor, it jumps and keens. It attaches itself, symbolically, to the text. Is this the making of sense, it asks? Almost, we are almost there. Like desire, the metaphor is always something never quite fulfilled. It not-quite captures what this is, this corporeal dream, this waking thought, this moment in time that is everything and nothing.

— Quinn Eades, All the Beginnings: a queer autobiography of the body

I was born with the urge to speak. It is the thing that leaves me feeling like a puppy dog, a fool, all red-hot face and a deep wish to draw the words back in and apologies stumbling around for hours after I have transgressed. Still, I continue to speak.

— Quinn Eades, All the Beginnings: a queer autobiography of the body.

If you are an aspiring poet under thirty, and you’d like to get a sense of how it would feel at a young age to believe profoundly in an element vaster than yourself, you could do worse than the modern equivalent of what Hopkins did and move every poem you’ve written so far to the Recycle Bin. Then empty it.

– Glyn Maxwell, On Poetry

Indents or centre-justification really ought to have some rationale, and I’d extend that to those poems that roam freely about the whiteness.

The poet who takes that journey is assuming control of the whiteness, presuming a considerable amount of power, which also means advancing to the foreground of the poem’s frame. We can see you, be aware of that.

— Glyn Maxwell, On Poetry.

… a poet can shape time in a poem, and form is how that’s done. So words like ‘formalist’ or ‘formalism’ mean very little to me. These categories make for nonsense. I was once branded a ‘neo-con’ by some online shadow, as if my work with rhyme and meter made me hawkish and pro-torture. I visualised some Dante-deep ring of cyberspace where only shit is spoken.

— Glyn Maxwell, On Poetry.