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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

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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
Would
Cave
Think
Caves
Thinking
Soup
Depression
Boring
Light
Better
Make

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The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
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stop the darkness and its amputations and find the real McCoy in the private holiness of my hands.
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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O starry night, This is how I want to die
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You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines, all this leprous day and then more vodka, more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies, the pond sucking out the throb.
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Need is not quite belief.
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Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.
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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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Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.
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Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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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 Its mouth opens four times as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster, yet somehow man-made.
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We are America. We are the coffin fillers. We are the grocers of death. We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
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Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse. She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
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The family story tells, and it was told true, of my great-grandfather who begat eight genius children and bought twelve almost new grand pianos. He left a considerable estate when he died.
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Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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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.
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I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar.
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