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Even without wars, life is dangerous.

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
Wars
Inspire
Dangerous
War
Reality
Without
Even
Life

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... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.
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I've grown tired of love You are the trouble with me I watch you walk right by
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Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will run.
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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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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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Big heart, wide as a watermelon, but wise as birth, there is so much abundance in the people I have.
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The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
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the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
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[I] have fantasies of killing myself and thus being the powerful one not the powerless one.
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Of course the New Testament is very small. Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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Loving me with my shoes off means loving my long brown legs, sweet dears, as good as spoons and my feet, those two children let out to play naked.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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I burn the way money burns.
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