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Life is ten percent what you make it and 90 percent how you take it. Irving Berlin		Sunday Dec 22, 2024
		Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969

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If i should enter the house and speak with my own voice, at last, about its awful furnitutre, pulling apart the covering over the dusty bodies; the randy father, the husband holding ice in his hand like a blessing, the mother bleeding into herself and the small imploding girl, i say if i should walk into that web, who will come flying after me, leaping tall buildings? you? Lucille Clifton

Quote Author: Lucille Clifton

Lucille Clifton

Lucille Clifton

Lucille Clifton (born June 27, 1936) is an American poet, writer, and educator from New York. Common topics in her poetry include the celebration of her African American heritage, and feminist themes, with particular emphasis on the female body; for instance, some of her more well known works include homage to my hips and poem to my uterus. A biography of Clifton was published in 2006.

Other Lucille Clifton Quotes

I remember standing there on stage in my new Christmas dress, trying not to cry as the church members smiled, nodded and murmured encouragement from the front row. 'Go 'head, baby.' 'Say it now, Luc.' 'Come on now, baby' But I couldn't remember, and to hide my deep humiliation, my embarassment, I became sullen, angry. 'I don' wanna.' And I stood there with my mouth poked out. It was a scandal! This fresh young nobody baby standing in front of the Lord in His own house talking about what she don't want! I could feel the disapproval pouring over my new dress. Then, like a great tidal wave from the ocean of God, my sanctified mother poured down the Baptist aisle, huge as love, her hand outstretched toward mine. 'Come on, baby,' she smiled, then turned to address the church: 'She don't have to do nothing she don't want to do.' And I was at the same time empowered and made free....

If i should enter the house and speak with my own voice, at last, about its awful furnitutre, pulling apart the covering over the dusty bodies; the randy father, the husband holding ice in his hand like a blessing, the mother bleeding into herself and the small imploding girl, i say if i should walk into that web, who will come flying after me, leaping tall buildings? you?

My Mama Moved Among the Days My Mama moved among the days like a dreamwalker in a field; seemed like what she touched was here seemed like what touched her couldn't hold, she got us almost through the high grass then seemed like she turned around and ran right back in right back on in

Children when they ask you why your mama so funny say she is a poet she don't have no sense