Poets Deal In Writing About

Where I Lived - Winter And Hard Earth.i Sat In My Cold Stone Roomchoosing Tough Words, Granite, Flint,to Break The Ice. My Broken Heart -i Tried That, But It Skimmed,flat, Over The Frozen Lake.she Came From A Long, Long Way,but I Saw Her At Last, Walking,my Daughter, My Girl, Across The Fields,in Bare Feet, Bringing All Spring's Flowersto Her Mother's House. I Swearthe Air Softened And Warmed As She Moved,the Blue Sky Smiling, None Too Soon,with The Small Shy Mouth Of A New Moon.

I See The Shape Of The Poem Before I Start Writing, And The Writing Is Just The Process Of Arriving At The Shape.

She Stood Upon A Continent Of Ice, Which Sparkled Between Sea And Sky, Endless And Dazzling, As Though The World Kept All Its Treasure There; A Scale Which Balanced Poetry And Prayer.

Having A Child Takes You Back To All Those Parts Of Your Own Childhood That You Had Hidden Away.

As Anyone Who Has The Slightest Knowledge Of My Work Knows, I Have Little In Common With Larkin, Who Was Tall, Taciturn And Thin-on-top, And Unlike Him I Laugh, Nay, Sneer, In The Face Of Death. I Will Concede One Point: We Are Both Lesbian Poets.