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Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

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
Poem
Opposite
Suicide
Opposites

More quotes by Anne Sexton

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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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I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
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Some women marry houses. It's another kind of skin it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
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It is a dead heart. It is inside of me. It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
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Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.
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Oh thumb, I want a drink it is dark, where are the big people, when will I get there...?
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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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I see myself as one would see another. I have been cut in two.
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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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I, in my brand new body, which was not a woman's yet, told the stars my questions and thought God could really see the heat and the painted light, elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.
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I am not lazy. I am on the amphetamine of the soul. I am, each day, typing out the God my typewriter believes in.
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Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.
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Now, in my middle age, about nineteen in the head I'd say, I am rowing, I am rowing.
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O fallen angel, the companion within me, whisper something holy before you pinch me into the grave.
Anne Sexton
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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Despite my asbestos gloves, the cough is filling me with black, and a red powder seeps through my veins.
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My business is words. Words are like labels, or coins, or better, like swarming bees.
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I would like to bury all the hating eyes under the sand somewhere.
Anne Sexton