Elaine Equi has been publishing her observant, often playful poetry for some 30 years, extending and deepening the range of her intrinsically wry voice.
I had written here and there about my mother in my poems. There are poems for her in my first and second books.
Feminists don’t honor successful women. You never hear them talking about Margaret Thatcher. Take Condoleezza Rice. She’s a remarkable, successful woman. You don’t hear the feminists talk about her or Carly Fiorina or Jeanne Kirkpatrick.
On the one hand, she is cut off from the protection awarded to her sisters abroad; on the other, she has no such power to defend her interests at the polls, as is the heritage of her brothers at home.
A good-humored wife who appreciates most, if not all, of my humor – her price is far above rubies, as the book of Proverbs doesn’t quite say.
A wife should no more take her husband’s name than he should hers. My name is my identity and must not be lost.
One of my main wishes in wanting to write about my mother was to explore the impact of her death on my life, explore our relationship, think about the different versions of myself that I was with and without her. I also had the really strong wish to bring her to life for my children, who were born after she was gone.
We cannot command Nature except by obeying her.
Dependence is not patriotism. A man does not love his mother if he hangs about her to the point of burdening her with a weak, feckless son.
If I were to tell you that your life is already perfect, whole, and complete just as it is, you would think I was crazy. Nobody believes his or her life is perfect. And yet there is something within each of us that basically knows we are boundless, limitless.