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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

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Jesus saw the multitudes were hungry and He said, Oh Lord, send down a short-order cook.
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Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
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I brush my hair, waiting in the pain machine for my bones to get hard, for the soft, soft bones that were laid apart and were screwed together. They will knit. And the other corpse, the fractured heart, I feed it piecemeal, little chalice. I'm good to it.
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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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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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It is June. I am tired of being brave.
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The sea is mother-death and she is a mighty female, the one who wins, the one who sucks us all up.
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I would sell my life to avoid the pain that begins in the crib with its bars or perhaps with your first breath when the planets drill your future into you.
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I am younger each year at the first snow.
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Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.
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When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.
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Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
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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 boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.
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Bless all useful objects, the spoons made of bone, the mattress I cook my dreams upon, the typewriter that is my church with an altar of keys always waiting.
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Somebody who should have been born is gone.
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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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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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I am torn in two but I will conquer myself.
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I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.
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