Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
Rocks crumble, make new forms, oceans move the continents, mountains rise up and down like ghosts yet all is natural, all is change.
You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
...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.
Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.
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.
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'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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.
Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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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