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I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

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
Face
Faces
Stuffing
Upon
Vomit
Truth
Promises
Mouth
Mouths
Watching
Promise

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Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.
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Father, you died once, salted down at fifty-nine, packed down like a big snow angel, wasn't that enough?
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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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Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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The snow has quietness in it no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
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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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The ground has on its clothes. The trees poke out of sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.
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Look to your heart that flutters in and out like a moth. God is not indifferent to your need. You have a thousand prayers but God has one.
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Now I am just an elderly lady who is full of spleen, who humps around greater Boston in a God-awful hat, who never lived and yet outlived her time, hating men and dogs and Democrats.
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It is in the small things we see it. The child's first step, as awesome as an earthquake. The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.
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Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.
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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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I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
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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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Blue eyes wash off sometimes.
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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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She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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