Corncobs Are The Greatest Fire-making Tinder.

The Corncob Was The Central Object Of My Life. My Father Was A Horse Handler, First Trotting And Pacing Horses, Then Coach Horses, Then Work Horses, Finally Saddle Horses. I Grew Up Around, On, And Under Horses, Fed Them, Shoveled Their Manure, Emptied The Mangers Of Corncobs.

The Sharpest Memory Of Our Old-fashioned Christmas Eve Is My Mother's Hand Making Sure I Was Settled In Bed.

The Years Rolled Their Brutal Course Down The Hill Of Time. Still Poor, My Clothes Still Smelling Of The Horse Barn, Still Writing Those Doubtful Poems Where Too Much Emotion Clashed With Too Many Words.

I Have Published In 'the New Yorker,' 'holiday,' 'life,' 'mademoiselle,' 'american Heritage,' 'horizon,' 'the Ladies Home Journal,' 'the Kenyon Review,' 'the Sewanee Review,' 'poetry,' 'botteghe Oscure,' The 'atlantic Monthly,' 'harper's.'

I Have Lectured At Town Hall N.y., The Library Of Congress, Harvard, Yale, Amherst, Wellesley, Columbia, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Louisiana State University, Colorado, Stanford, And Scores Of Other Places.