I had no idea what art was. There was one art class in high school, but it didn't make a big impression on me. Then I went to college and thought I'd become a writer.
A woman who writes feels too much.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter. . . Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
I would like a simple life yet all night I am laying poems away in a long box.
The scientific spirit, the contempt of tradition, the lack of discipline and the exaltation of the individual have very nearly made an end of art. It can only be restored by the love of beauty, the reverence for tradition, the submission to discipline and the rigor of self-control.
My father wasn't a militant racist. He was a human rights activist - he was about human beings, so let's just get away from going way back then.
Patience is not simply the ability to wait - it's how we behave while we're waiting.
We are separated from God on two sides; the Fall separates us from Him, the Tree of Life separates Him from us.