One Writes In Order To Feel.

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.

There Has Been In Our Time A Lack Of Reliance On Language And A Lack Of Experimentation Which Are Frightening To Anyone Who Sees Them As Symptoms. We Know The Phenomenon Of Stage-fright: It Holds The Player Shivering, Incapable Of Speech Or Action. Perhaps There Is An Audience-fright Which The Play Can Feel, Which Leaves Him With These Incapacities.

I Hear The Singing Of The Lives Of Women. They Clear Mystery, The Offering, And Pride.

The 'idea' For The Poem, Which May Come As An Image Thrown Against Memory, As A Sound Of Words That Sets Off A Traveling Of Sound And Meaning, As A Curve Of Emotion (a Form) Plotted By Certain Crises Of Events Or Image Or Sound, Or As A Title Which Evokes A Sense Of Inner Relations; This Is The First 'surfacing' Of The Poem. Then A Period Of Stillness May Follow.

What Three Things Can Never Be Done? / Forget. Keep Silent. Stand Alone