Sometimes it seemed to me I could not look at those silent little figures; that I must go north, to the grim coal fields, to the Rocky Mountain camps, where the labor fight is at least fought by grown men.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I remember as a little girl going down to the beet fields in the Dakotas and in Nebraska and Wyoming as migrant workers when I was very, very small, like, I was, like, 5 years old, I believe. And I remember going out there, you know, traveling to these states and living in these little tarpaper shacks that they had in Wyoming.
We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread.
Bring me men to match my mountains: Bring me men to match my plains: Men with empires in their purpose and new eras in their brains.
I see drawings and pictures in the poorest of huts and the dirtiest of corners.
I can remember going back a couple of years later and, you know, think about it and I was doing a, kind of a political survey, door to door, and everything and I couldn't find any men in the town. It was very strange, you know.
I was writing poetry, and the Mountain Goats was an outgrowth of that.
My mother listened to all the news from the camp during the strike. She said little, especially when my father or the men who worked for him were about I remember her instinctive and unhesitating sympathy for the miners.
When I go to farms or little towns, I am always surprised at the discontent I find. And New York, too often, has looked across the sea toward Europe. And all of us who turn our eyes away from what we have are missing life.
Too often, parents whose children express an interest in farming squelch it because they envision dirt, dust, poverty, and hermit living. But great stories come out of great farming.
I'm fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in.