I tell poets that when a line just floats into your head, don't pay attention 'cause it probably has floated into somebody else's head.

Words can do wonderful things. They pound, purr. They can urge, they can wheedle, whip, whine. They can sing, sass, singe. They can churn, check, channelize. They can be a "Hup two three four." They can forge a fiery army of a hundred languid men.

beware the easy griefs / that fool and fuel nothing.

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!

When I start writing a poem, I don't think about models or about what anybody else in the world has done.

It frightens me to realize that, if I had died before the age of fifty, I would have died a 'Negro' fraction.

I've always thought of myself as a reporter. When people ask why I don't stop writing, I say, `Look at what's happening in this world. Every day there's something exciting or disturbing to write about.’ With all that's going on, how could I stop?