We are each other's harvest; we are each other's business; we are each other's magnitude and bond.

The forties and fifties were years of high poet-incense; the language-flowers were thickly sweet. Those flowers whined and begged white folks to pick them, to find them lovable. Then the '60s: Independent fire!

It is brave to be involved. To be not fearful to be unresolved.

Be yourself. Don't imitate other poets. You are as important as they are.

There are no magics or elves / Or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must / Wizard a track through our own screaming weed.

Exhaust the little moment / Soon it dies.

Poetry is life distilled.