It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.
I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
When they turn the sun on again I'll plant children under it, I'll light up my soul with a match and let it sing.
Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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