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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
Men
Knot
Knots
Ties
Separate
Inside
Woman
Never

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I am crazy as hell, but I know it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse.
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Be careful of words, / ... they can be both daisies and bruises.
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Poems aren't postcards to send home.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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I who was a house full of bowel movement, I who was a defaced altar, I who wanted to crawl toward God could not move nor eat bread.
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The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Oh sharp diamond, my mother! I could not count the cost of all your faces, your moods that present that I lost. Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady...
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Even without wars, life is dangerous.
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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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So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.
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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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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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I am tearing the feathers out of the pillows, waiting, waiting for Daddy to come home and stuff me so full of our infected child that I turn invisible, but married, at last.
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I was only sitting here in my white study with the awful black words pushing me around.
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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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Meanwhile in my head, I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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I have forgiven all the old actors for dying. A new one comes on with the same lines, like large white growths, in his mouth. The dancers come on from the wings, perfectly mated.
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