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It takes some strength of soul–and not just individual strength, but collective understanding–to resist this void, this nonbeing, into which are thrust, and to stand up, demanding to be seen and heard.

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Demanding Individual Nonbeing Resist Strength Void

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Marilyn Monroe Paulo Coelho Abraham Lincoln C. S. Lewis Khalil Gibran Charlie Chaplin Gautama Buddha Isaac Newton

We who were loved will never unlive that crippling fever.
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Crippling Fever Love Loved Unlive
Only to have a grief equal to all these tears!
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All Equal Grief Tear Women
The liar leads an existence of unutterable loneliness.
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Existence Liar Loneliness Lying Unutterable
Show us to ourselves when we are outlawed or made invisible, remind us of beauty where no beauty seems possible, remind us of kinship where all is represented as separation.
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It is the lesbian in us who is creative, for the dutiful daughter of the fathers in us is only a hack.
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No woman is really an insider in the institutions fathered by masculine consciousness.
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Consciousness Fathered Insider Institutions Masculine Really Woman
The most notable fact that our culture imprints on women is a sense of our limits.
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I came to explore the wreck.
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Came Explore Wreck
There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep, and still be counted as warriors. (I make up this strange, angry packet for you, threaded with love.) I think you thought there was no such place for you, and perhaps there was none then.
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Among Counted Down Must None Perhaps Sit Weep
TV has created a kind of false collectivity.
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No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees, sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air, dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding, our animal passion rooted in the city.
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Air Animal Blazing Budding City Dappled Exuberantly Imagined Passion Scar Sulfuric Sycamores Tree
A huge breast, an avid cave; between her legs snakes, swamp-grass, or teeth; on her lap a helpless infant or a martyred son. She exists for one purpose: to bear and nourish the son.
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Avid Breast Cave Exist Grass Helpless Huge Leg Martyred Purpose Snake Son Swamp Teeth
If poetry ceased to exist, it would immediately be reinvented on that same day.
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Ceased Day Exist Immediately Poetry Reinvented Same
What kind of beast would turn its life into words?
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I am an instrument in the shape/ of a woman trying to translate pulsations/ into images for the relief of the body/ and the reconstruction of the mind.
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Body Instrument Mind relief Shape Trying
I’ve known great happiness in my life along with great darkness, and a question that has repeatedly entered my poetry has been, how do we use the direct experience of happiness that may be given us.
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