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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.

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
Inspirational
Beautiful
Soul
Hard
Life
Ears
Creativity
Close
Listen

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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The sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face. in the presence of mine enemies, mine enemies The world is full of enemies. There is no safe place.
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Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.
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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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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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women are born twice.
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Please God, we're all right here. Please leave us alone. Don't send death in his fat red suit and his ho-ho baritone.
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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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I love the word warm. It is almost unbearable-- so moist and breathlike.
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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire, as doth the spider hang her baby on a thin web.
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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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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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Take a woman talking, purging herself with rhymes, drumming words out like a typewriter, planting words in you like grass seed. You'll move off.
Anne Sexton