If We Think Of What's Up Ahead,

I Have Piles Of Poetry Books In The Bathroom, On The Stairs, Everywhere. The Only Way To Write Poetry Is To Read It.

How Would You Prepare To Die On A Perfect April Evening?

When You Have A Child, Your Previous Life Seems Like Someone Else's. It's Like Living In A House And Suddenly Finding A Room You Didn't Know Was There, Full Of Treasure And Light.

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.

My Prose Is Turgid, It Just Hasn't Got Any Energy