We don't ask a flower any special reason for its existence. We just look at it and are able to accept it as being something different from ourselves.
Do not desire to fit in. Desire to oblige yourselves to lead.
We are each other's harvest; we are each other's business; we are each other's magnitude and bond.
Books are meat and medicine and flame and flight and flower steel, stitch, cloud and clout, and drumbeats on the air.
I believe we should all know each other, we human carriers of so many pleasurable differences. To not know is to doubt, to shrink from, sidestep or destroy.
Say to them, say to the down-keepers, the sun-slappers, the self-soilers, the harmony-hushers, "Even if you are not ready for day it cannot always be night." You will be right. For that is the hard home-run. Live not for battles won. Live not for the-end-of-the-song. Live in the along.
Reading is important - read between the lines. Don't swallow everything.
Words can do wonderful things. They pound, purr. They can urge, they can wheedle, whip, whine. They can sing, sass, singe. They can churn, check, channelize. They can be a "Hup two three four." They can forge a fiery army of a hundred languid men.
I think there are things for all of us to do as long as we're here and we're healthy.
Don't let anyone call you a minority if you're black or Hispanic or belong to some other ethnic group. You're not less than anybody else.
Truth-tellers are not always palatable. There is a preference for candy bars.
Live not for Battles Won. Live not for The-End-of-the-Song. Live in the along.
Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies. And be it gash or gold it will not come Again in this identical guise.
People like definite decisions, / Tidy answers, all the little ravelings / Snipped off, the lint removed, they / Hop happily among their roughs / Calling what they can't clutch insanity / Or saintliness.
Even if you are not ready for day
it cannot always be night.
I know that the Black emphasis must be not against white but FOR Black.
When you love a man, he becomes more than a body. His physical limbs expand, and his outline recedes, vanishes. He is rich and sweet and right. He is part of the world, the atmosphere, the blue sky and the blue water.
A poem doesn't do everything for you.
You are supposed to go on with your thinking.
You are supposed to enrich
the other person's poem with your extensions,
your uniquely personal understandings,
thus making the poem serve you.
I've always thought of myself as a reporter. When people ask why I don't stop writing, I say, `Look at what's happening in this world. Every day there's something exciting or disturbing to write about.’ With all that's going on, how could I stop?
This is the urgency: Live! and have your blooming in the noise of the whirlwind.
What, what am I to do with all of this life?
What shall I give my children? who are poor, / Who are adjudged the leastwise of the land ...
One reason that cats are happier than people is that they have no newspapers.
Writing is a delicious agony.
Art is a refining and evocative translation of the materials of the world.
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