What will you do now with the gift of your left life?
Love’s language starts, stops, starts; the right words flowing or clotting in the heart.
Then he started his period.One week in bed.Two doctors in.Three painkillers four times a day.And later a letter to the powers-that-bedemanding full-paid menstrual leave twelve weeks per year.
Poetry, above all, is a series of intense moments – its power is not in narrative. I’m not dealing with facts, I’m dealing with emotion.
I’m not the first or the lastto stand on a hillock,watching the man she marriedprove to the worldhe’s a total, utter, absolute, Grade A pi
Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head, warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood.
I like to use simple words, but in a complicated way.
But life, they said, means life. Dying inside.The Devil was evil, mad, but I was the Devil’s wifewhich made me worse. I howled in my cell.If the Devil is gone then how could this be hell?
For this,let gardens grow, where beelines end,sighing in roses, saffron blooms, buddleia;where bees pray on their knees, sing, praisein pear trees, plum trees; beesare the batteries of orchards, gardens, guard them.
Christmas is taken very seriously in this household. I believe in Father Christmas, and there’s no way I’d do anything to undermine that belief.
You can find poetry in your everyday life, your memory, in what people say on the bus, in the news, or just what’s in your heart.
I have piles of poetry books in the bathroom, on the stairs, everywhere. The only way to write poetry is to read it.
If I felt, in the event of a royal wedding, inspired to write about people coming together in marriage or civil partnership, I would just be grateful to have an idea for the poem. And if I didn’t, I’d ignore it.