Not sure I want to publish this, as it is something I ran across via someone to get to the original, and I am not even sure it is an exact quote nor have I read the entirety of the original, nor will I. Poetry to me in all my life has only had meaning when read to me by someone else with the necessary inflections, deep voice and added drama. If it is just words on a page with me alone, it deflects off me like wind outside as I drive my truck, sheltered from it. It just doesn’t affect me. I wish I knew more than I do and appreciated more than I do how poetry works. There are a few phrases that move me, and I have them on a bulletin board behind me, so well known that I don’t need name the authors …
If you can hold your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you …
Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though…Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day…
That’s the official story. I just spent the last hour or so re-reading two papers by Miles W. Mathis on Bundy, 

