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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.

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
Hate
Dogs
Humps
Around
Lady
Outlived
Democrat
Spleen
Never
Awful
Hating
Men
Dog
Elderly
Time
Lived
Boston
Full
Hats
Greater
Democrats

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...
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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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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
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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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You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
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When the cow gives blood and the Christ is born we must all eat sacrifices. We must all eat beautiful women.
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the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death crèche.
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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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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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At six I lived in a graveyard full of dolls, avoiding myself, my body, the suspect in its grotesque house.
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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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All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
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And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself
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I raise my pelvis to God so that it may know the truth of how flowers smash through the long winter.
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Let God be some tribal female who is known but forbidden.
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I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.
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I did not know the woman I would be nor that blood would bloom in me each month like an exotic flower, nor that children, two monuments, would break from between my legs.
Anne Sexton