The universe of poetry is the universe of emotional truth. Our material is in the way we feel and the way we remember.

I think there is a 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.

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.

The fear of poetry is an indication that we are cut off from our own reality.

In time of crisis, we summon up our strength. Then, if we are lucky, we are able to call every resource, every forgotten image that can leap to our quickening, every memory that can make us know our power. And this luck is more than it seems to be: it depends on the long preparation of the self to be used.

One writes in order to feel.

The process of writing a poem represents work done on the self of the poet, in order to make form.