I found this quote hanging outside my literature room some months ago,
and I just think it is the perfect introduction to this blog

These words of mine are no stones
To pick and throw at passing fancies.
They're yeast-sounds, bread waiting
To be broken whilst they're still fresh.
Leave them overnight and they become
Hard as rusting bolts, not fit for
eating. My verse is harboured
in lover's hearts.
Expose it to the indifferent world busy
with its traffic and it chokes to death.
Like a fish it swims in the lover's blood.
Land it on the rocks and it gasps for life
The slowly dies, cold and stiff as an icicle.
You must be rich with metaphors, like
An ore of gold waiting to be ruined
If you are to digest my words
When they're fresh. Know this,
My friend, it's nothing new.
These words are turned to bliss when you
Read them with your own imagining heart.

Divan 981