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The man inside of woman ties a knot so that they will never again be separate.

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
Separate
Inside
Woman
Never
Men
Knot
Knots
Ties

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In a dream you are never eighty.
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As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
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I am out of practice at living. You are as brave as a motorcycle.
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To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.
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All I wanted was a little piece of life, to be married, to have children.... I was trying my damnedest to lead a conventional life, for that was how I was brought up, and it was what my husband wanted of me. But one can't build little white picket fences to keep the nightmares out.
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I try to take care and be gentle to them. Words and eggs must be handled with care. Once broken they are impossible things to repair.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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I grow old on my bitterness.
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I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.
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But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.
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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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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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With this pen I take in hand my selves and with these dead disciples I will grapple. Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
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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 imitatea memory of beliefthat I do not own.
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There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God give milk and I have the pail.
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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.
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Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.
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