Writing for hours a day since he was 14 years old. That makes a poet.
He described it:
I sat myself at the desk
for this day’s lifelong
engagement with the one task and desire.
When I was 14, I wrote maudlin, angst-ridden crap. Once in a while. When I was upset.
I have never managed to approach the work with enough desire, enough hours of my life.
Not really whining, I’m afraid. Just looking at lives, and feeling the urge to write something maudlin, as usual.