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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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If you meet a cross-eyed person you must plunge into the grass, alongside the chilly ants, fish through the green fingernails and come up with the four-leaf clover.
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Poetry to me is prayer.
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This is what poems are: with mercy for the greedy, they are the tongue's wrangle, the world's pottage, the rat's star.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!
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Someone is dead. Even the trees know it, those poor old dancers who come on lewdly, all pea-green scarfs and spine pole.
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The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is the waves fold over each other they are in love with themselves sleeping in their own skin and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.
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I leave you, home, when I'm ripped from the doorstep by commerce or fate. Then I submit to the awful subway of the world.
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Thumbs grow into my throat. I wear slaps like a spot of rouge.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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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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Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren
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Need is not quite belief.
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we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead. Your palms fold over me like knees. Love is the only use.
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Frog has no nerves. Frog is as old as a cockroach. Frog is my father's genitals. Frog is a malformed doorknob. Frog is a soft bag of green.
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Here in the hospital, I say,that is not my body, not my body.I am not here for the doctorsto read like a recipe.
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Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
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Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings
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... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.
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Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.
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