Although we know not what we use,
Although we grope with little faith,
Give me the heart to fight — and lose.
Make me more daring than devout;
From sleek contentment keep me free,
And fill me with a buoyant doubt.
With beauty, and with wonder lit —
But always let me see the dirt,
And all that spawn and die in it.
Me thrill with Spring’s first flutes and drums —
But never let me dare forget
The bitter ballads of the slums.
Keep me with stern and stubborn pride;
And when at last the fight is won,
God, keep me still unsatisfied.
How to Get Published
Getting the Most from Your Writing Workshop
How Not to Become a Literary Dropout
Putting Together a Book Manuscript
Working with a Writing Mentor
How to Deliver Your Message
Does the Muse Have a Cell Phone?
Why Write Poetry?
Poetic Forms: Introduction; The Sonnet, The Sestina, The Ghazal, The Tanka
How to Be an American Writer