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Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

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
Shelves
Silent
Waiting
Beautiful
Shelf
Counting

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Today life opened inside me like an egg.
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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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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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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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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.
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being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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In a letter (no matter how quickly it is written or honestly or freely or lovingly) it is more possible to be loving and lovable, more possible to reach out and to take in ... I feel I have somehow deceived you into thinking this is really a human relationship. It is a letter relationship between humans.
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The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.
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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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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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I love you. You are closest to my heart, closer than any other human being. You are my extension. You are my prayer. You are my belief in God. For better or worse you inherit me.
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I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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I am your dwarf. I am the enemy within. I am the boss of your dreams. See. Your hand shakes. It is not palsy or booze. It is your Doppelganger trying to get out. Beware...Beware...
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I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?
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Images are probably the most important part of the poem. First of all you want to tell a story, but images are what are going to shore it up and get to the heart of the matter.
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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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