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Even so, I must admire your skill. You are so gracefully insane.

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
Gracefully
Skill
Insane
Admire
Skills
Must
Even

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I like you your eyes are full of language. [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]
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I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
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The silence is death. It comes each day with its shock to sit on my shoulder, a white bird, and peck at the black eyes and the vibrating red muscle of my mouth.
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I am in my own mind. I am locked in the wrong house.
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Rats live on no evil star
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The body is a damn hard thing to kill.
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Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
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Yes I try to kill myself in small amounts, an innocuous occupation. Actually I'm hung up on it.
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My ideas are a curse. They spring from a radical discontent with the awful order of things. I play clown. I play carpenter. I play nurse. I play witch.
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Inside many of us is a small old man who wants to get out.
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Come, my pretender, my fritter, my bubbler, my chicken biddy! Oh succulent one, it is but one turn in the road and I would be a cannibal!
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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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All the oxygen of the world was in them. All the feet of the babies of the world were in them. All the crotches of the angels of the world were in them. All the morning kisses of Philadelphia were in them.
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I said, the poets are there I hear them singing and lying around their round table and around me still.
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I was the girl of the chain letter, the girl full of talk of coffins and keyholes, the one of the telephone bills, the wrinkled photo and the lost connections.
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It's all a matter of history. Brandy is no solace. Librium only lies me down like a dead snow queen. Yes! I am still the criminal.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
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Yes, I know. Death sits with his key in my lock. Not one day is taken for granted. Even nursery rhymes have put me in hock.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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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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