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The heavy sensual shoulders, the thighs, the blood-born flesh and earth turning into color, rocks into their crystals, water to sound, fire to form: life flickers uncounted into the supple arms of love.

Muriel Rukeyser

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Muriel Rukeyser
Age: 66 †
Born: 1913
Born: December 15
Died: 1980
Died: February 12
Author
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
New York City
New York
Fire
Turning
Uncounted
Sound
Shoulders
Flickers
Water
Flesh
Supple
Born
Heavy
Flicker
Form
Rocks
Thighs
Earth
Arms
Sensuality
Love
Color
Crystals
Life
Blood
Sensual

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Whatever can happen to anyone can happen to me.
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No one wants to read poetry. You have to make it impossible for them to put the poem down--impossible for them to stop reading it, word after word. You have to keep them from closing the book.
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A world is to be fought for, sung, and built: Love must imagine the world.
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Punctuation is biological. It is the physical indication of the body-rhythms which the reader is to acknowledge.
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I hear the singing of the lives of women. They clear mystery, the offering, and pride.
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The process of writing a poem represents work done on the self of the poet, in order to make form.
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How can I look back and not speak of the stupid learning about birth? Of the stupid learning that people make love, and how it seemed the reason for all things, the intimacy of my wondering, the illumination that to an adolescent was the cause for life around me, the reason why the unhappy people I knew did not kill themselves?
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One writes in order to feel.
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Never to despise in myself what I have been taught to despise. Nor to despise the other. Not to despise the it. To make this relation with the it: to know that I am it.
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The world is not made of molecules, the world is made of stories.
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Reality is the completion of experience.
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However confused the scene of our life appears, however torn we may be who now do face that scene, it can be faced, and we can go on to be whole.
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Nourish beginnings, let us nourish beginnings. Not all things are blest, but the seeds of all things are blest. The blessing is in the seed.
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The fear of poetry is an indication that we are cut off from our own reality.
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I am working out the vocabulary of my silence.
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Flight is intolerable contradiction.
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What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.
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What three things can never be done? / Forget. Keep silent. Stand alone
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Women in drudgery knew They must be one of four: Whores, artists, saints, and wives. There are composite lives that women always live
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As we live our truths, we will communicate across all barriers, speaking for the sources of peace. Peace that is not lack of war, but fierce and positive.
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