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Rats live on no evil star

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
Evil
Live
Rats
Star
Stars

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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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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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When I lie down to love, old dwarf heart shakes her head. Like an imbecile she was born old.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.
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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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women are born twice.
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And within the house ashes are being stuffed into my marriage, fury is lapping the walls, dishes crack on the shelves, a strangler needs my throat, the daughter has ceased to eat anything.
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After a disaster strikes, it can be very devastating and very challenging. You're going to need a lot of strength and energy, and the American Red Cross suggests you go for the high protein items.
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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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One of my secret instructions to myself as a poet is Whatever you do, don't be boring.
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There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning.
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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 am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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Being kissed on the back of the knee is a moth at the windowscreen.
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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
Anne Sexton