Poetry Is Life Distilled.

I Like The Concentration, The Crush; I Like Working With Language, As Others Like Working With Clay, Or Notes.

The Forties And Fifties Were Years Of High Poet-incense; The Language-flowers Were Thickly Sweet. Those Flowers Whined And Begged White Folks To Pick Them, To Find Them Lovable. Then The '60s: Independent Fire!

Life Must Be Aromatic. There Must Be Scent, Somehow There Must Be Some.

Life For My Child Is Simple, And Is Good.

Say To Them, Say To The Down-keepers, The Sun-slappers, The Self-soilers, The Harmony-hushers, "even If You Are Not Ready For Day It Cannot Always Be Night." You Will Be Right. For That Is The Hard Home-run. Live Not For Battles Won. Live Not For The-end-of-the-song. Live In The Along.