Perhaps this very instant is your time.

The poem is always the last resort. In it the poet makes a world in little, and finds peace, even though, under complete focused emotion, the evocation be far more bitter than reality, or far more lovely.

No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.

Poetry is often generations in advance of the thought of its time.

The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.

...in a time lacking in truth and certainty and filled with anguish and despair, no woman should be shamefaced in attempting to give back to the world, through her work, a portion of its lost heart.

O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.