Poetry has roots, but they are sometimes cut off and still poetry is written.

I'm always resisting [my muse]. I'm resisting her power.

My brothers were my peers, but they were not the preeminent male figures in my emotional life.

I want, I want, I want! We never grow out of it somehow. Unless we become Buddhists, maybe.

With so many brothers, I could always find a pair of shorts to borrow and run around in.

When I was younger, yes, there was a part of me - and I wrote about that bit in Among the White Moon Faces - that wanted to be a boy. I wanted to be accepted by my brothers and to be their peers.

Philosophy is a bad master for poetry; religion worse; and politics self-serving will never serve the Muse.