Always Our Wars Have Been Our Confessions

In Time Of Crisis, We Summon Up Our Strength. Then, If We Are Lucky, We Are Able To Call Every Resource, Every Forgotten Image That Can Leap To Our Quickening, Every Memory That Can Make Us Know Our Power. And This Luck Is More Than It Seems To Be: It Depends On The Long Preparation Of The Self To Be Used.

The Truth Of A Poem Is Its Form And Its Content, Its Music And Its Meaning Are The Same.

Women In Drudgery Knew They Must Be One Of Four: Whores, Artists, Saints, And Wives. There Are Composite Lives That Women Always Live

Slowly I Would Get To Pen And Paper, Make My Poems For Others Unseen And Unborn. In The Day I Would Be Reminded Of Those Men And Women, Brave, Setting Up Signals Across Vast Distances, Considering A Nameless Way Of Living, Of Almost Unimagined Values.

The World Is Made Up Of Stories, Not Atoms.