I think there is choice possible to us at any moment, as long as we live. But there is no sacrifice. There is a choice, and the rest falls away. Second choice does not exist. Beware of those who talk about sacrifice.
The fear of poetry is an indication that we are cut off from our own reality
In our period, they say there is free speech. They say there is no penalty for poets, There is no penalty for writing poems. They say this. This is the penalty.
The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.
The universe is made up of stories, not atoms.
What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?The world would split open.
No one wants to read poetry. You have to make it impossible for them to put the poem down--impossible for them to stop reading it, word after word. You have to keep them from closing the book.
Always our wars have been our confessions of weakness
breathe in experience breathe out poetry
American poetry has been part of a culture in conflict....We are a people tending toward democracy at the level of hope; at another level, the economy of the nation, the empire of business within the republic, both include in their basic premise the idea of perpetual warfare
I hear the singing of the lives of women. The clear mystery, the offering, and the pride.
As we live our truths, we will communicate across all barriers, speaking for the sources of peace. Peace that is not lack of war, but fierce and positive.
We are against war and the sources of war. We are for poetry and the sources of poetry.
However confused the scene of our life appears, however torn we may be who now do face that scene, it can be faced, and we can go on to be whole.
Those who speak of our culture as dead or dying have a quarrel with life, and I think they cannot understand its terms, but must endlessly repeat the projection of their own desires.
I lived in the first century of world wars. Most mornings I would be more or less insane.
A work of art is one through which the consciousness of the artist is able to give its emotions to anyone who is prepared to receive them. There is no such thing as bad art.
The journey is my home.
How shall we venture home? How shall we tell each other of the poet? How can we meet the judgment on the poet, or his execution? How shall we free him? How shall we speak to the infant beginning to run? All those beginning to run?
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.
I hear the singing of the lives of women. They clear mystery, the offering, and pride.
If there were no poetry on any day in the world, poetry would be invented that day. For there would be an intolerable hunger.
The sources of poetry are in the spirit seeking completeness.
These are roads to take when you think of your country and interested bring down the maps again, phoning the statistician, asking the dear friend, reading the papers with morning inquiry.
We sit here, very different each from the other, until the passion arrives to give us our equality, to make us part of the play, to make the play part of us.