Who Gets To Choose What Battle Takes

Translation Makes Me Look At How A Poem Is Put Together In A Different Way, Without The Personal Investment Of The Poem I'm Writing Myself, But Equally Closely Technically.

I Try To Write Everyday. I Do That Much Better Over Here Than When I'm Teaching. I Always Rewrite, Usually Fairly Close-on Which Is To Say First Draft, Then Put It Aside For 24 Hours Then More Drafts.

The Woman Poet Must Be Either A Sexless, Reclusive Eccentric, With Nothing To Say Specifically To Women, Or A Brilliant, Tragic, Tortured Suicide.

I've Been An Inveterate Reader Of Literary Magazines Since I Was A Teenager. There Are Always Discoveries. You're Sitting In Your Easy Chair, Reading; You Realize You've Read A Story Or A Group Of Poems Four Times, And You Know, Yes, I Want To Go Farther With This Writer.

Did You Love Well What Very Soon You Left? Come Home And Take Me In Your Arms And Take Away This Stomach Ache, Headache, Heartache. Never So Full, I Never Was Bereft So Utterly. The Winter Evenings Drift Dark To The Window. Not One Work Will Make You, Where You Are, Turn In Your Day, Or Wake From Your Night Toward Me. The Only Gift I Got To Keep Or Give Is What I've Cried, Floodgates Let Down To Mourning For The Dead Chances, For The End Of Being Young, For Everyone I Loved Who Really Died. I Drank Our One Year Out In Brine Instead Of Honey From The Seasons Of Your Tongue.