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Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

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
Poet
Exuberance
Saints
Moderation
Poets
Saint

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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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Love your self's self where it lives.
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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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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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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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Women tell time by the body. They are like clocks. They are always fastened to the earth, listening for its small animal noises.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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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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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.
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Every time I get happy the Nana-hex comes through. Birds turn into plumber's tools, a sonnet turns into a dirty joke, a wind turns into a tracheotomy, a boat turns into a corpse.
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What's the point of fighting the dollars when all you need is a warm bed? When the dog barks you let him in. All we need is someone to let us in. And one other thing: to consider the lilies in the field.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress.
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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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The fish are naked. The fish are always awake. They are the color of old spoons and caramels.
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