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It doesn't matter who my father was it matters who I remember he was.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Matter
Dad
Children
Matters
Grief
Daughter
Father
Death
Fathering
Doesn
Fatherhood
Remember
Daddy

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It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
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The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.
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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind
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it was my first doll that water went into and water came out of much earlier it was the diaper I wore and the dirt thereof and my mother hating me for it
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My safe, safe psychosis is broken. It was hard. It was made of stone. It covered my face like a mask. But it has cracked.
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Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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