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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren

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
Wren
Wrens
Eagle
Eagles
Wings
Sometimes
Life
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Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.
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Once upon a time we were all born, popped out like jelly rolls forgetting our fishdom, the pleasuring seas, the country of comfort, spanked into the oxygens of death.
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Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
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Cinderella and the prince lived, they say, happily ever after, like two dolls in a museum case never bothered by diapers or dust, never arguing over the timing of an egg, never telling the same story twice.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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I sit at my desk each night with no place to go, opening the wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo, the whole U.S., its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones, through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
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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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My eyes, those sluts, those whores, would play no more.
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Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
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Love your self's self where it lives.
Anne Sexton
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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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you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true. I made up a song called Marriage.
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I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
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Pulling off the fat diamond engagement ring, pulling off the elopement wedding ring, and holding them, clicking them in thumb and forefinger, the indent of twenty-five years, like a tiny rip leaving its mark.
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think of innocent Icarus who is doing quite well: larger than a sail, over the fog and the blast of the plushy ocean, he goes. Admire his wings!
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I was spread out dailyand examined for flaws.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
Anne Sexton
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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What a lay me down this is with two pink, two orange, two green, two white goodnights.
Anne Sexton