Art is a refining and evocative translation of the materials of the world.
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!
Poetry is life distilled.
I swear to keep the dead upon my mind, / Disdain for all time to be overglad.
Nothing could stop Mississippi.
I've always thought of myself as a reporter.