Purple as tulips in May, mauve into lush velvet, purple as the stain blackberries leave on the lips, on the hands, the… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
I don't think writers change the past any more than other people do, except in so far as we may mine our… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
I will choose what enters me, what becomes flesh of my flesh. Without choice, no politics, no ethics lives. I am not… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
We may be losing the ability to understand animals who are not pets or horses. We have less contact with them. We… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
Long hair is considered bohemian, which may be why I grew it, but I keep it long because I love the way… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
Live as if you liked yourself, and it may happen: reach out, keep reaching out, keep bringing in. This is how we… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
Nobody can live on a bridge or plant potatoes but it is fine for comings and goings, meetings, partings and long views… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
Depressions, local and larger strikes, boom times, wars, repressions, all impact a life as do epidemics such as AIDS and pollution that… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
The anger of the weak never goes away, Professor, it just gets a little moldy. It molds like a beautiful blue cheese in the… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
“The people I love the best jump into work head first without dallying in the shallows and swim off with sure strokes almost out… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
Every poet has a certain amount of "stuff." That's what you draw from for imagery. The more stuff you know well, not simply intellectually… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
the body is simple as a turtle / and straight as a dog: / the body cannot lie. — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
We must shine with hope, stained glass windows that shape light into icons, glow like lanterns borne before a procession. Who can bear hope… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
Remember that every son had a mother whose beloved son he was, and every woman had a mother whose beloved son she wasn't. — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
We live in a media soup and are constantly being programmed or are fighting that programming. Thus any truthful account of a life, every… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
The moon is always female and so am I although often in the vale of razorblades I have wished I could put on and… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
Sometimes when a character in a novel is difficult for me to enter, I sue something in myself or in my own life as… — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
Doorways are sacred to women for we are the doorways of life and we must choose what comes in and what goes out. — Marge Piercy Copy Share Image
