Life For My Child Is Simple, And

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!

What Shall I Give My Children? Who Are Poor, / Who Are Adjudged The Leastwise Of The Land...

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?

We Are Each Other's Magnitude And Bond.

When I Start Writing A Poem, I Don't Think About Models Or About What Anybody Else In The World Has Done.