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.
Love your self's self where it lives.
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
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.
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 am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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.
The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.
Mood can be as important as sense.
The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.
As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
We are all writing God's poem.
Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
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